Page 98 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

I laughed a little, shaky in his lap. “I’m not sure that I do. But I will tell you. I promise. I might tell you too much.”

He shook his head, traced his fingers along my jawline. “There’s no such thing. I’ll stop whenever you want me to. We can stop right now if you want.”

“No,” I whispered, trembling at his touch. “Don’t stop.”

He nuzzled my cheek, kissed the hollow of my throat. I leaned into him, letting my eyes flutter shut as I reveled in the strength of his hands at my neck and hips, holding me to him. His lips blazed a slow,sweet path past the collar of my shirt.Hisshirt. Remembering that made me squirm, my hips shifting. He let out a sharp hiss.

“Do that again,” he said, very low.

I obeyed, rolling my hips against his. Even through our clothes, I could feel the hard heat of his desire between my legs. The slight pressure—hard against soft—sent a thrill of pleasure blooming through me. I let out a breathy laugh, bore down on him again and again, seeking more of that, more ofhim. His hands were on my hips, helping me move, determining our rhythm. He kissed my neck, my collarbones, nudged the shirt aside. It was so loose on me that it slipped easily off my shoulder, baring my skin. The shock of cold air made me shiver, but not for long.

“Hold on to me,” he whispered, and I slid my arms around his neck and let him carry me back down the hallway to his room. The light was soft, the air warm from the stove. He set me on my feet beside the bed and drew me up against him for a long, slow kiss. He cradled my head in his hands, and I stretched up to meet him, my skin prickling everywhere he touched me.

“I have an idea,” he murmured against my mouth. A kiss, and then another, my lips tingling from the soft scratch of his beard. When he pulled away, I swayed closer, bereft.

“But wait,” I protested. My words came out a little slurred; I was already drunk on his kisses, and I needed more of them. I curled my fingers into his shirt and tugged on it gently, whimpering a little.

He smiled, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, rewarded my pleading with a kiss. He drew my lower lip gently between his teeth, and I shuddered at the feeling, new to me and scorching.

“Do you trust me?” he asked me, his brow pressed to mine, and though months ago I’d have answered such a question with laughter, suspicion, hatred—now, when I leaned into his touch with my eyes half closed, I felt only certainty, a slow-blooming calm.

“I trust you,” I whispered, smiling up at him. He drew me against him, kissed my hair, my temples, and held me for a moment with a sort of fierceness, as if convincing himself that this was real, that I was real. And then he began.

Slowly, Ryder slid the shirt off my shoulders, as far as it would go without him undoing any buttons. The fabric gliding against my skin—the way the sleeves fell down my arms, trapping them gently against my torso—brought me an unexpected prickle of desire. And then Ryder fisted his hand in the voluminous fabric hanging off my back, tightening the shirt even further around my arms, and used it to tug me harder against him.

The shock of pleasure was incredible and made me cry out, a sound I couldn’t contain. Being trapped by him, his arms like hot iron around me, not knowing what he would do next—and yet knowing all the while that one word from me would end it, that every moment, every second, he was listening to me and reading me, that if I lost my voice he would help me find it—the unfamiliar duality was overwhelming. He was stronger, laughably so, and yet his every kiss, his every touch skimming down my arms felt reverent, like a prayer said with his body. He was the mountain, intractable and mighty, but I was the god who could undo him with a wave of my hand.

I let my eyes drift shut as he lowered his head to my bared shoulders. He kissed every exposed inch of skin, followed each kiss with a smooth, slow glide of his hand. A stroke, a caress, and then another, his fingers feather soft and teasing. And then he murmured hoarsely against the fabric pulled taut across my breasts, “Farrin, turn around.”

My stomach tightened at the sound of his voice; my knees went wobbly. I hesitated, looked up at him.

“Should I stop?” he whispered.

His eyes were soft, a tender blue. Marvelous, how those eyes could change, like daggers of ice when he was angry or sweet as bluebellswhen he was happy. I touched his face, traced the line of his dark brow.

“Don’t stop,” I told him, and then I turned around, facing the stove, and I held my breath, waiting for what I knew would come—what I dreaded, what I hoped for.

His hands settled first on my shoulders—huge and warm, like the weight of a favorite blanket. He kissed my braid, then my neck, and then he reached around me and found the buttons of my shirt.Hisshirt—every time I remembered that was like a new, thrilling discovery. I was wearing Ryder’s shirt, and now he was unbuttoning it, slowly, carefully. With each button, his fingers brushed against my breasts, then my navel, then the trembling skin below it. I closed my eyes, my body tightening under his touch. I swayed back into the heat of him; my body knew what it wanted, even with its pounding heart and fluttery nerves. He slid the sleeves off of my arms, let the fabric fall to the floor.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to feel the air on my bared skin and not recoil from it. My mind began to race. What did my back look like? I certainly didn’t know. Was I still beautiful to him? The trousers he’d lent me were comically large; even with the waistband rolled over twice, I hardly dared to move for fear they would fall. Suddenly this seemed not endearing but childish. My feet were sweating in my borrowed socks. Tears pricked my eyes.

Then Ryder’s arms came around me once more, this time to find my hands. I’d balled them into nervous fists, and he gently unfolded them, twined my fingers with his for a moment, kissed the dip between my shoulder blades. He then released me and brought his hands to my shoulders, started gently kneading my tense muscles. The steady press of his thumbs, the soft drag of his fingers down my spine, was the best thing I’d ever felt. I reached back and grabbed on to his shirt, steadying myself.

He laughed quietly. “I thought you would like this. Gods.” His breath was hot on the tender skin behind my ear. “Your skin is unfairly soft. I could do nothing but touch your back for the rest of my life and be happy.”

I let out a soft puff of laughter, shivering anew with each caress of his hands. “Now you’re just flattering me.”

“No, I’m simply speaking the truth.” He circled his hands around my waist, his fingers spanning the trembling skin of my belly. He pressed his thumbs into the dip of my lower back, making slow circles, each one unspooling me. I felt limp under his touch and leaned my head back against his chest, not thinking of how that might expose me until I heard his indrawn breath.

He slid his hands up my belly, cupped my breasts, circled his thumbs around my nipples. I arched into him and cried out softly. I reached back for his head, grabbed at his hair. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I wanted him closer.

Gently, he released me and helped me stand upright. “No, not yet,” he said, a smile in his voice. “First it’s your turn.” I heard him move a little and felt the cold of his absence against my back. “You can turn around. I’m not looking.”

I hesitated, then obeyed. He was standing with his back to me, his arms at his sides. Even so, my skin prickled with goose bumps; he could turn around at any moment and see more of my body than whatever flashes of it I’d nervously glanced at over the years. But with the memory of his hands on me, the echo of his lips on my skin, that possibility didn’t seem so terrifying.

And yet my heart still thundered as I went to him and began unbuttoning his shirt, as he had unbuttoned mine. At first I felt a little silly doing it; I fumbled to find each button, much clumsier than he had been. But then I began to notice how rigidly he held himself, how his breath came quiet and quick, the heat of him radiating under mypalms as if he were the sole source of warmth in this room, of light, of life. The state of him, all tense anticipation and quiet yearning, emboldened me; I found my courage and finished.

His shirt fell to the floor, and the sight of his naked back took my breath away. He was all muscle and taut skin, every line of his body one of beauty and power. But what shook me most of all was the faint web of scars crisscrossing his skin—silvery and thin, quite old. He could’ve easily gotten rid of such scars; the Basks could certainly afford the finest salves and the best healers in the north. But Ryder had kept them, and I thought I understood why.

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