Page 21 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
R haal carried Yasmin into the familiar warmth and quiet of their cave. He placed her carefully on her feet, then quickly built up the fire, aware of her watching him. When he turned, she stood in the center of the space, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames.
The sight of her—so small, so alien, so impossibly brave—made his chest ache with a feeling he had no name for.
She stepped towards him, slow and deliberate.
Her hands came up to rest against his chest, small and warm through his fur.
His heart thundered beneath her touch. She had seen it all.
His weakness. His shame. The broken parts he’d hidden in the shadows of exile.
She had witnessed the raw wound that festered between him and Broc, and had heard his former clan-brother’s judgment.
Shadow-dweller. The word echoed in his mind, sharp as a blade. It was what the clan called those who retreated from life, who allowed grief to consume them until they became mere ghosts of themselves.
“Rhaal,” she said, just his name, nothing more.
But it was everything.
His hands came up to frame her face, his claws carefully retracted. He traced the delicate line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, the sweep of her throat. Memorizing her with his touch as he had with his eyes a hundred times before.
There was no urgency in his movements, none of the desperate hunger that had driven him before. This was something else entirely—a reverence, a worship. Each touch a question, each sigh from her lips an answer.
“Yasmin,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
He lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her with a kiss that held no demands, no expectations—only a request. A request to be let in, to be trusted, to be accepted for everything he was, the broken and the whole.
And she answered him, her lips parting beneath his, her tongue meeting his with a sweetness that made his chest ache. She kissed him back with a ferocity that belied her fragile frame, her arms winding around his neck as she rose onto her toes to meet him.
He lifted her easily, his hands spanning her waist, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. The heat of her core pressed against his abdomen, and he felt the vibration of her moan against his lips. The sound was like music to his ears.
He carried her to the furs, laying her down with a gentleness he hadn’t known he possessed. Her hair fanned out beneath her, a dark halo framing her pale skin. She reached for him, pulling him down to cover her, her limbs tangling with his in a dance of need and desire.
He broke the kiss, looking down at her flushed face. “Yasmin,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper. “Mine.”
She smiled, a smile that was a promise all on its own. “Yours,” she said, the word a vow.
He moved slowly, carefully, aware of her fragility beneath him.
Every touch was deliberate, a worshipful exploration of her body.
His fingers traced the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the softness of her thighs.
He knew her body now, knew it as well as he knew his own, but it was different this time.
He peeled away the layers of clothing that separated them, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin. He pressed his lips to each newly bared patch of skin, tasting, teasing. She shivered under his touch, her breathing becoming ragged, her nails scraping lightly against his fur.
When he finally had her naked beneath him, he paused, drinking in the sight of her. She was a work of art, a masterpiece. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so precious. And she was his.
He bent to kiss her again, claiming her lips with a gentle ferocity. His tongue dipped into her mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. He felt her body arch beneath him, pressing against him, seeking more.
And he gave it to her, his hands roaming over her body, touching, stroking, caressing.
He knew the sensitive area on the curve of her neck, the spot behind her ear that made her gasp.
He knew the feel of her nipples hardening under his palms and the way her legs parted when he trailed his hand down her stomach.
He broke the kiss to look at her again, to see the need in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. She was ready, he could smell it, the sweet musk of her arousal filling the air. He gently parted her thighs, exposing the glistening pink of her core.
He lowered his head, breathing in her scent. “Beautiful,” he rumbled before dipping his tongue into her heat. She cried out, her hips lifting off the furs as he tasted her. He growled, the vibration making her gasp and writhe.
He explored every fold, every curve of her, his tongue delving deep into her core before flicking over the sensitive bud at the apex of her sex. Her hands clenched in his hair, tugging and pulling as he worked her with his mouth, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin.
He could feel her climbing, her body tensing, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid.
He slipped a finger into her, curling it forward to find the spot that made her gasp.
He stroked her there, his tongue circling that small bud relentlessly until she shattered, her body arching off the furs, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
He continued to lick and suckle her through her climax, drawing out every wave of pleasure until she collapsed beneath him, boneless and panting. He lifted his head, looking at her with a fierce, primal satisfaction. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, gently tugging him up over her body.
“It’s time,” she whispered.
They had come to this point before and he’d always drawn back, fearful of hurting her. But this time was different. He saw the trust in her eyes, and for the first time he believed he deserved that trust.
He positioned himself over her, the head of his kotra brushing against her entrance. She was so small, so delicate. But she looked up at him, her eyes shining with desire and trust, and he knew she could take him.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed forward. Her body resisted him, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance stretching around his thick shaft of his kotra. He paused, giving her time to adjust. She breathed deeply, her hands gripping his biceps, and nodded for him to continue.
He pressed further, inch by inch, feeling her body yield to his. She was slick and hot, and the feel of her surrounding him was almost enough to make him lose control. He gritted his teeth, holding back the urge to thrust hard and fast, to bury himself in her to the hilt.
He paused again when he felt her body tighten around him, and she winced. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, her expression relaxed, and she nodded.
With a final push, he buried himself in her, his pelvis flush against hers. She was so tight, so hot, it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He held still, giving her time to adjust, fighting the primal urge to move, to claim.
“Rhaal,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He looked down at her, worried. But what he saw in her eyes was not fear or pain, but something else entirely. There was love there, and trust, and a need that matched his own.
She moved first, tentatively, her hips shifting beneath him.
He growled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. Slowly, he withdrew and then slid forward again, setting a gentle rhythm.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss as they moved together, finding a rhythm that suited them both.
He felt his pleasure building, a deep, coiling tension at the base of his spine. He knew he wouldn’t last long, not with the way she was moving beneath him, her hips meeting his with each thrust, her inner muscles gripping him tightly.
But it wasn’t about him, not this time. This was for her, for both of them. He reached between their bodies, finding the sensitive nub that he knew would bring her to the edge. He stroked it gently, in time with his thrusts, and he felt her begin to tremble, her nails digging into his back.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”
He increased his pace, pounding into her with a wild abandon he’d never felt before. She matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his, her body arching into his touch. He felt her climax begin, her muscles clenching around him, her body shaking.
His own release followed, a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, his kotra ring swelling inside her as he spilled his seed, locking them together. He threw his head back and roared, the sound echoing off the walls of the cave.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight supported by his arms. They stayed like that for a long moment, their bodies joined, their breath mingling. Finally, he rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she rested on his chest.
She sighed, her breath warm against his fur. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
“Mate,” he rumbled, the word carrying all he could not express.
She smiled up at him, her eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Mate,” she repeated, the word slightly awkward on her tongue but perfect nonetheless.
He pulled the furs over them both, cocooning them in warmth. Outside, the wind howled, a distant reminder of the harsh world beyond their sanctuary. But here, in this moment, there was only peace.
His mind, for the first time in years, was quiet. No recriminations. No endless loop of what he should have done differently. No ghosts whispering accusations in the dark.
Just this. Just her.
He traced lazy patterns on her skin, marveling at its softness, at how delicate she was compared to the females of his kind. Yet there was nothing fragile about her spirit. She had faced the wreckage of his past without flinching. Had chosen him, knowing what he was.
The realization humbled him.
Sleep began to claim her, her body growing heavier against his. He watched her drift off, her features softening, her lips slightly parted. The sight filled him with a fierce protectiveness that went beyond mere instinct.
This was what it meant to be whole again. To have something—someone—worth fighting for. Worth living for.
His sister’s pendant rested against his chest, the familiar weight now a comfort rather than a burden. He imagined, for the first time without pain, what Ayla would think of his mate. She would have loved Yasmin, he knew. Would have delighted in her courage, her compassion.
Perhaps that was the final gift Yasmin had given him—the ability to remember Ayla with love instead of anguish. To honor her memory by living fully, rather than existing in the half-life of grief.
As sleep finally claimed him, his last conscious thought was a promise—to Yasmin, to himself, to the memory of his sister.
He would be worthy of this second chance.