Page 87 of Katya and the Young God

He makes a small sound at the back of his throat, before raising his hand and softly, ever so softly, touching her hair. Threading his fingers through her short black strands and pulling them away from her face, like she’s a delicate treasure.

People don’t usually think of her as delicate. With her broad shoulders, with her weapons, with her military experience, the lovers she picks usually assume she wants to be tossed around, to be slammed into walls and beds, to wrestle with, making every encounter into a battle. And while she enjoys that, while it makes her blood thrill, a small part of her melts at his tentative touch. As if he worries that he will be too much.

And she knows, she knows he very well might be.

She breaks the kiss, gentle, and somewhere in there his eyes had fluttered closed. Like even looking at her is too much.

“Are you okay?” She whispers, as if the falling snow would steal her voice.

He runs his hand through her hair before looking up at her, and he looks half broken already. Like the kiss took away his very ability to speak.

His lips part, but he says nothing, so Katya frees her hands from the quilt, cradling his jaw in the palm of her hand.

He leans into the touch, like it’s more precious than gold. Like he’s been so isolated, like he’s been so without people, that no one has dared reach out to him like this.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she says, and the whisper of fallen snow almost drowns her out. “It’s okay if this is too much.”

Instead of answering her, he leans back down, his lips meeting hers once more, almost insistent and almost demanding, but...

But just on this end of insecurity. Just on this end of being unsure if he’s allowed.

Katya opens her lips against his, and he mirrors her movements, eager, the small noise in the back of his throat once more.

Emboldened, she twists her hand into his curls, and he shudders against her at the sensation, eyes falling shut again. His curls are far softer than she had thought they would be, like they’ve been waiting to be tousled like this, waiting for her hands to play with them.

Every small motion, every small touch between them, he looks broken anew.

She worries his bottom lip between her teeth, and he groans, like he’s not controlling his actions at all. Like she breaks him down, reduces him to just instinct. Someone as small as a human could do this to someone so powerful.

Suddenly, a wind kicks up the small bits of snow collected on the porch around them, tossing up the clumps of snow, as he leans into her more. Stepan’s fur moves, and she can’t tell if it’s wind or his power or or or...

The small part of her that’s always running threat analysis, always running through how much danger she’s in and how to escape, starts to wind its way into her heart, slither through her stomach, start yelling about how much danger she’s actually in, how much this is a very, very bad idea. Remind her that only a few short weeks ago, this man was the monster in her nightmares, was the thing she needed to push through to survive.

But the man in front of her now is pliant, warm against her, and his breath hitches when she hesitates, when she pauses.

“Katya,” he whispers, voice a caress of noise, so close to her his lips brush against hers as he speaks.

She drags herself back to awareness with both hands. “Your wound, is it okay?” She forces her voice to be even, forces it to be normal, but it trembles precipitously.

He blinks at her, grey eyes so close and so beautiful, like his wound is the furthest thing from his mind right now. “It’s fine,” he says, firm, like he’s the one getting himself under control as well.

His hand falls from her hair, trailing on her neck and her shoulder, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and it takes every bit of Katya’s self-control to not lean into his touch.

It hasn’t been that long for her, she’s not this touch starved, but every small graze of his hand feels like it’s lighting her on fire.

His face softens, like he gets it, for a brief, quick second. “You’re still scared of me,” he whispers.

“No,” Katya says, skin prickling at his touch and his words. “You’re just...”

He kisses her again, open mouthed, and she lets herself arch into him, press her leg against his underneath the quilt, lets her hand slide down his chest to the flat plane of his stomach. Lets herself feel his abs move against her touch, lets herself get overwhelmed, lets everything about him rush over her.

Each small motion from under the blankets lets in a whisper of cold air, and the snow falls around them, blanketing the entire world in white, surreal beauty.

Suddenly, every touch isn’t enough, like every nerve in her body needs more of him. She swings herself up so she’s straddling him, still under the blankets, her legs bracketing his thighs, hands on either side of his face, and she kisses him, kisses him like she can absorb all her fear and stop all the uncertainty.

He presses back against her, jaw hard, and his hands grip her hips, like he’s afraid she’ll try to get away.

She could break his grasp, roll away, in the space between a breath and a heartbeat, but she just holds his chin, kisses him, until her stomach stirs with heat and she wants this so much her eyes blur.

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