Page 37 of Born in Fire

“Now is different,” he says, voice low. “You’re different.”

“I’m still me,” I whisper. “Just… more me than I’ve been in a long time.”

As I say the words, I realize how true they are. It’s like I’ve turned a corner, moved past the fear that kept me locked up for so long. And somehow, I feel like this man is connected.

I find myself holding my breath as he leans in toward me, anticipation making my lips tingle. When we kiss, it’s nothing like last night’s desperate connection. This is deliberate, chosen. I’m fully present in my body, in this moment, in this decision. His lips are warm against mine, his touch respectful yet hungry.

My lord, he tastes so good.

I break the kiss to look at him, to really see him. “I want this,” I say clearly. “I want you. Not because I’m afraid or vulnerable or grateful. Because I choose to.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief mixed with desire. “I want you too. More than I can explain.”

This time when we come together, it’s equal. Reciprocal. His hands learn my body as mine explore his. I notice things I was too overwhelmed to register last night—how unusually warm his skin feels beneath my fingers, the strange golden flecks in his amber eyes when passion dilates his pupils, the way his heartbeat seems to match mine.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, my fingers trembling not from fear but anticipation.

“I want to see you,” I whisper against his mouth. “All of you.”

He helps me, lifting his arms as I pull the fabric up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest steals my breath away. I’ve felt it under my palms, but seeing it—the defined muscles, the intricate dragon tattoos that seem almost alive in the dim light—is something else entirely. There’s an artistry to his body that makes my fingers itch for a pencil to capture the way shadows play across his skin.

“Your turn?” he asks, voice husky with desire but tentative, still giving me space to dictate the pace.

I nod, lifting my arms in silent invitation. He tugs my sweater off with exquisite care, as if I’m something fragile. The cool air pebbles my skin, but I don’t feel cold—not with the heat of his gaze warming me.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes traveling over my lace-covered breasts. His fingertips trace the edge of my bra, featherlight. “May I?”

The fact that he asks—that he continues to ask despite the obvious consent in my body language—makes something swell in my chest. Something like trust.

“Please,” I breathe.

He reaches behind me, unhooking my bra. As the straps slide down my arms, I resist the urge to cover myself. Tyler always found fault—too small, too uneven—but Dorian looks at me like I’m a revelation.

“Perfect,” he says, cupping one breast in his palm. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I gasp, the sensation shooting straight to my core. “So responsive.”

I lean into his touch, arching my back as his mouth replaces his hand. The wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple makes me moan, my fingers threading through his hair to hold him close. He lavishes attention on each breast in turn, alternating between gentle suckles and teasing licks until I’m squirming beneath him.

“Dorian,” I pant. “I need—”

“Tell me,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you need, Juno.”

The command in his voice sends a thrill through me. This is nothing like the controlling demands I’ve known before. This is an invitation—a space for me to voice my desires without shame.

“I need to feel you,” I say, finding courage in the darkness of his blown pupils. “All of you. Skin to skin.”

He stands, holding my gaze as he unfastens his belt, then his jeans. There’s something almost ceremonial about the way he undresses, like he’s offering himself to me. When he steps out of his boxers, I can’t help but stare. He’s magnificently erect, larger than I expected, the head of his cock flushed dark with blood. My mouth goes dry at the thought of taking him inside me.

“Your turn,” he says again, kneeling before me.

His hands trail up my calves, behind my knees, along my thighs—an exploration that makes every nerve ending sing. He tugs off my leggings with deliberate slowness, peeling them down along with my underwear. I lift my hips to help him, and soon, I’m completely naked before him.

For a moment, he simply looks at me, his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. Then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. I shudder, my legs falling open in silent invitation.

“I’ve been thinking about tasting you again since last night,” he says, his breath warm against my most sensitive place.

“God, yes,” I manage, already trembling with anticipation.

The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out. It’s not just pleasure—though the physical sensation is overwhelming—it’s the knowledge that he wants this, wants me. That he takes clear delight in my enjoyment.

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