Page 21 of Feral Gods

"Is that all it is?" Her gaze searches mine, hazel-green eyes reflecting the lamplight. "Obligation?"

"No." The truth emerges against my will, compelled by something in her expression. "Not merely obligation."

"Then what?" She steps closer still, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the clean soap scent of her skin beneath the herbal tang of the healing salve.

Words fail me—I, who once commanded armies with eloquence and authority. Instead, I reach out, tracing the curve of her jaw with one careful finger, my obsidian skin stark against her warmth.

"I should not want this," I whisper, voice roughened by desire. "You are human. Fragile. Temporary."

"We are all temporary," she counters, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. "Some just have longer to wait."

The simple wisdom of her statement undoes something within me—some final restraint holding back the flood of emotion threatening to drown my rational mind. My hand slides from her jaw to the nape of her neck, cradling her head with a gentleness I did not know I possessed.

"If I start this," I warn, my voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate between us, "I may not be able to stop."

Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers, but not with fear. "What if I don't want you to stop?"

The last thread of my control snaps. I bend, closing the distance between us, capturing her lips with mine in a kiss that begins as conquest but transforms instantly into communion. She tastes of bergona tea and something uniquely her —sweet and complex and utterly intoxicating.

For a heartbeat, she freezes, and I fear I've misunderstood, overstepped, ruined everything. Then she melts against me, her small hands coming up to press against my chest, not pushing away but anchoring herself as she returns the kiss with unexpected fervor.

A growl of approval rumbles through me as I deepen the kiss, careful despite my growing passion not to overwhelm or harm her. My free arm encircles her waist, drawing her closer, supporting her as she rises on tiptoes to better reach me.

When we finally part, her breathing comes quick and shallow, her lips pleasingly swollen from my attention. Her eyes, when they open, hold no fear—only wonder and a hunger that matches my own.

"I have wanted to do that," I confess, my voice rougher than intended, "since the moment you stood up to me during the attack."

A small laugh escapes her, not mocking but delighted. "That's what attracted you? Me challenging your authority?"

"You standing in your power," I correct, stroking my thumb along the delicate skin beneath her ear. "Claiming your voice after years of enforced silence."

Her expression softens, vulnerability and strength intertwining in ways I find endlessly fascinating. "I never thought I'd find freedom in a sanctuary guarded by predators."

"Is that how you see us? As predators?"

"Sometimes," she admits with disarming honesty. "You are dangerous, Ravik. All of you. But danger isn't always something to fear."

Her insight strikes deeper than she could know.

We are dangerous—I most of all, perhaps.

My possessive nature, my territorial instincts, my capacity for violence all pose risks to someone as physically vulnerable as Kaia.

Yet she stands before me without fear, offering trust I have done little to earn.

"I would never harm you," I vow, the promise burning like neptherium fire in my blood. "Never."

"I know." She rises again, initiating the kiss this time, her hands sliding up to my shoulders with tentative exploration.

The sensation of her touch—gentle, curious, accepting—ignites something molten within me.

I deepen the kiss, carefully guiding her backward until she meets the stone table at the chamber's center.

With minimal effort, I lift her onto its edge, positioning myself between her thighs without breaking our connection.

The new angle allows me to trail kisses down her neck, pausing to pay particular attention to the sensitive junction where neck meets shoulder. Her quick intake of breath and the subtle arch of her spine tell me I've found a place of pleasure.

"Tell me to stop," I murmur against her skin, even as my hands span her waist, feeling the delicate structure of her ribs beneath thin fabric. "If this is too much, too soon..."

"Don't stop," she whispers, fingers threading through my hair, carefully navigating around the base of my horns. "Please."

The entreaty shatters what remains of my restraint. I claim her mouth again, more demanding this time, tasting her soft gasp of surprise and pleasure. My hands wander with greater purpose, learning the contours of her body through the simple garment she wears.

When my palm cups the gentle swell of her breast, she moans into our kiss, the sound sending a jolt of pure desire straight to my core. I circle her nipple with my thumb, feeling it harden beneath the fabric, drawing another delicious sound from her throat.

"So responsive," I murmur appreciatively, trailing kisses along her jaw. "So perfect."

Her hands grow bolder, exploring the planes of my chest, tracing the runic patterns etched into my obsidian skin. When her fingers follow a particularly sensitive line from sternum to abdomen, I growl with pleasure, the sound seemingly startling us both with its primal nature.

"Does that hurt?" she asks, concern momentarily overshadowing desire.

I capture her exploring hand, pressing it more firmly against my chest. "No. It pleases me. Greatly."

Relief and renewed desire flash across her expressive features. "Show me how to please you more."

The innocent request, delivered with such genuine curiosity, nearly undoes me completely. I take her hand, guiding it lower, letting her feel the hard evidence of my desire for her. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't withdraw.

"This is what you do to me," I admit, voice rough with need. "What you have done since you first challenged me."

A becoming flush spreads across her cheeks, but her gaze remains steady. "I want to see you. All of you."

The request—bold and unexpected—sends a fresh surge of desire through me.

I step back slightly, allowing her the view she requested.

My body differs from a dark elf's in many ways—larger, more imposing, skin like polished obsidian rather than merely gray.

But in essential configuration, I remain male in all the ways that matter for what we contemplate.

Her gaze travels over me with undisguised appreciation, lingering on the etched runes across my chest, the powerful muscles of my arms and thighs, and finally, the unmistakable evidence of my arousal.

"You're beautiful," she whispers, the simple declaration striking me speechless. Beautiful is not a word I have ever associated with this form—powerful, yes; fearsome, certainly; but beautiful?

"As are you," I respond when I find my voice. "May I see you as well?"

She hesitates only briefly before nodding, reaching for the hem of her tunic. I catch her hands, stopping the motion.

"Allow me," I request, my voice gentler than I thought possible.

With exquisite care, I draw the garment upward, revealing her body inch by tantalizing inch.

The soft curve of her hips, the gentle dip of her waist, the perfect swell of her breasts—each new discovery more precious than the last. When the tunic finally passes over her head, I let it fall forgotten to the floor.

"Perfection," I breathe, drinking in the sight of her. Her body bears the marks of her difficult life—a thin scar along her ribs, the brand-mark on her wrist, the fresh abrasion on her shoulder—yet remains the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.

"I'm not—" she begins, self-consciousness creeping into her expression.

"You are," I insist, cutting off her denial with a kiss that leaves no room for argument.

My hands explore newly revealed territory, learning the texture of her skin, the places that make her gasp or sigh with pleasure. When I cup her breast directly, feeling its perfect weight in my palm, she arches into the touch with unconcealed desire.

"Ravik," she breathes as I lower my head to taste the rosy peak, her fingers clutching the back of my neck for support.

I lavish attention on first one breast then the other, savoring her increasingly urgent responses. Her thighs tighten around my hips, drawing me closer to her core, the heat of her evident even through the thin leggings she still wears.

"Tell me what you want," I urge, returning to capture her lips briefly. "Tell me how to please you."

The request clearly surprises her. "You... you're asking what I want?"

The implication—that her pleasure has never been a consideration for previous partners—ignites fresh anger within me. "Always."

Tentatively, as if unused to expressing her own desires, she guides my hand lower, past the gentle curve of her stomach to the junction of her thighs. Through the fabric of her leggings, I can feel her heat, her readiness.

"Here," she whispers, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. "Please."

I stroke her gently through the fabric, watching her reactions closely, learning what brings the greatest pleasure. When her breathing quickens and her hips begin to move against my touch, I intensify the pressure slightly, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with careful precision.

"Yes," she gasps, head falling back to expose the elegant column of her throat. "Like that."

The sight of her abandoned to pleasure is more intoxicating than the finest rirzed wine. I continue my ministrations, adding my mouth to her neck, her breasts, anywhere I can reach while maintaining the rhythm that seems to please her most.

"Ravik," she moans, the sound of my name on her lips during pleasure sending fresh heat coursing through me. "I need... I want..."

"Tell me," I encourage, increasing the pace slightly.

"You," she manages, eyes opening to meet mine with startling directness. "Inside me. Please."