Page 32

T he unmade bed beneath me was soft, the straw mattress giving way as Uldrek lowered me onto it. His mouth found mine again, the kiss deeper this time, more certain. I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer, feeling the solid weight of him, the smell of cedar and clean sweat.

We broke apart, half-laughing, breathless. The lamplight cast a warm glow across his face, softening the angles. His eyes never left mine.

"You're sure about this?" he asked.

I smiled, running my fingers along the edge of his jaw. "I suggested it, remember?"

"Just checking."

His hands covered mine, helping with the knots. When his shirt came loose, I pushed it up, revealing the expanse of his chest—broad and muscled, marked here and there with the thin white lines of old scars. I traced one that curved along his ribs.

"Shadow beast," he explained, watching my face. "Got careless during patrol."

"And this one?" I touched another near his shoulder.

"Bar fight in Riverbend. Miner with a broken bottle."

"Did you win?"

His grin was wolfish. "What do you think?"

I laughed, the sound unfamiliar in this context—intimate, unguarded. It felt good. Right.

He tugged at the hem of my blouse. "May I?"

I nodded, lifting my arms as he drew the fabric over my head. The air was cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. I wore only my breastband now, and the thin linen of my skirt.

Uldrek's gaze traveled over me, appreciative but not greedy. His hands followed, warm and steady as they traced the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips. He pressed a kiss to my collarbone, then another to the hollow of my throat.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against my skin.

I felt myself tense slightly—an old reflex, long ingrained. Beautiful meant valuable. Valuable meant useful. Useful meant giving.

But Uldrek wasn't demanding anything. He was simply present, his touch gentle as he explored me, unhurried and attentive. This wasn't a performance or a duty. There was no rush to get somewhere, no sense of obligation hanging over us.

His fingers found the tie of my breastband, pausing there. "Is this all right?"

"Yes," I said, swallowing past a sudden tightness in my throat.

He unwound the linen slowly, letting it fall away. I resisted the urge to cover myself. My breasts were fuller now, marked with the pale silver streaks of pregnancy and nursing. Not the perfect, unmarked skin of the woman I'd once been.

But there was nothing in Uldrek's expression that suggested disappointment. Only reverence as he cupped one breast in his palm, his thumb brushing lightly over the nipple. I gasped at the sensation—sharper, more intense than I remembered.

"Good?" he asked.

"Yes," I breathed. "Just sensitive."

He nodded, adjusting his touch to something gentler—barely there, a whisper against my skin that sent a shiver through me.

His mouth replaced his hand, warm and wet. I arched into the contact, a soft sound escaping me. My fingers threaded through his hair, holding him to me as he moved to the other breast, giving it the same careful attention.

Heat pooled low in my belly, a slow-building warmth that spread through me like honey. I shifted beneath him, seeking more contact, wanting to feel him everywhere.

He kissed his way down my stomach, lingering at the soft curve below my navel—another mark of motherhood, skin stretched and never quite returned to what it was.

I tensed again, but he didn't seem to mind or even notice the imperfection.

He was too busy worshipping every inch of me, his hands spanning my waist as his mouth traveled lower.

When he reached the waistband of my skirt, I felt a different tension rise in me. This was familiar territory, but not in a good way. Memory flickered—Gavriel's hands, impatient. The silent expectation. The performance required.

I pushed the thought away. This wasn't then. This was now.

Uldrek looked up at me, his expression questioning. "Tell me what you want," he said, his voice low and serious.

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. A nervous laugh escaped me. "I don't know. Whatever you want to do, I suppose."

He stilled, his hands withdrawing from my waist. He sat back on his heels, putting a deliberate space between us.

"That's not how this works, Issy," he said quietly. "Not with me."

Heat rose in my cheeks—embarrassment, confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, this isn't about what I want to do to you. It's about what you want." His eyes held mine, steady and unflinching. "All of it. Every touch. Every moment. I need you to be here with me, choosing it. Not just allowing it."

The words struck something deep in me, something raw and unexamined. I'd spent so long accommodating, anticipating, performing. When had anyone ever asked what I wanted? When had I ever been expected to know?

"I—" I faltered, suddenly uncertain. "I don't know if I can."

"Can what?"

"Tell you." I swallowed hard. "I've never... No one's asked before."

Something flickered across his face—understanding, perhaps, or anger on my behalf.

But his voice remained gentle. "Then we'll figure it out together.

Tell me where. How. If you want me to stop, we stop.

If you want more, you say so. But it has to come from you.

Not because you think it's what I expect. "

I stared at him, this man who had become so much more than a shield or a lie or a convenient protection. This man who saw me—really saw me—and was asking me to see myself.

"I don't know where to start," I admitted.

He smiled slightly. "How about with what feels good? What you like?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This was harder than facing the Council, harder than filing the declaration against Gavriel. This was admitting to wanting. To having desires of my own.

"I like it when you kiss me," I said finally, the words coming out small but clear.

"Where?" he prompted.

"Everywhere." I swallowed again. "My neck. My breasts. When you're gentle, but not… not like I'll break."

He nodded, encouraging. "What else?"

The dam began to crack. Words spilled out with increasing confidence. "I like your hands on my waist. The way you look at me like you're memorizing everything. I like when you're close enough that I can feel your heartbeat."

"Better," he said, his voice roughening slightly. "Anything else?"

I sat up, moving to my knees so we were face to face. "I want to see you. All of you."

His eyes darkened. "That's fair."

He stood then, unfastening his trousers with steady hands. When he pushed them down, along with his underclothes, I couldn't help the small intake of breath. He was fully erect, thick and long—a reminder of what he was, what we were to each other now.

But there was no expectation in the way he stood before me. No silent demand. Just openness, vulnerability even, as he allowed me to look my fill.

"Your turn," he said gently. "If you want."

And I found that I did want. I stood, my fingers going to the ties of my skirt. With a deep breath, I loosened them and let the fabric fall, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of it, now wearing only my undergarments.

Uldrek's gaze traveled over me, but he made no move to close the distance between us. He was waiting, I realized. For me to come to him.

So I did.

I closed the space between us, my hands finding his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm. "I want to touch you," I said, my voice stronger now, more certain. "I want to learn you."

His eyes never left mine as I explored him—the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the swell of muscle in his arms. When my hands reached his sides, he twitched slightly, a hint of a smile appearing.

"Ticklish?" I asked, surprised.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he growled, but there was no threat in it.

I touched him more boldly then, tracing the line of muscle that led down from his hip toward his erection. When my fingers brushed against him, he inhaled sharply but didn't move.

"Like this?" I asked, wrapping my hand around him.

"Yes," he said, his voice strained. "Just like that."

I stroked him slowly, watching his face, learning what made his breath catch, what made his eyes close briefly in pleasure. It was empowering in a way I hadn't expected—not because I was controlling him, but because I was pleasing him. Because I wanted to.

After a few moments, he covered my hand with his own, stilling my movements. "Enough of that," he said roughly. "Or this will be over before it starts."

I smiled, feeling a surge of confidence. I took a step back, then another, until I reached the edge of the bed again. I sank onto it, looking up at him.

"Show me," I said softly. "Show me what you like."

He approached slowly, a predatory grace in his movements that sent a shiver of anticipation through me.

"What I like," he said, kneeling at the edge of the bed, "is to take my time.

" His hands slid up my calves, warm and firm.

"To learn every inch." They continued higher, over my knees, along my thighs.

"To find what makes you sigh." His fingers hooked into the waistband of my undergarments.

"What makes you gasp." He drew them down slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. "What makes you forget your own name."

I lifted my hips, allowing him to remove the last barrier between us. Now we were both bare, exposed to each other in the warm glow of the lamplight.

"Guide me," he said, his hands resting lightly on my thighs. "Show me how to touch you."

It was a struggle to find the words, to overcome years of silence and accommodation. But the need building in me was stronger than the fear. I reached for his hand and guided it between my legs.

His fingers were warm, patient. He didn’t push, didn’t assume. Just waited, letting me set the pace. I shifted my hips slightly, angling into his palm, and showed him how I wanted to be touched.