Page 138 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
She stood barefoot in the kitchen, brushing her fingers along the rim of a chipped mug. The tile was warm under her feet, sunbaked. She wore nothing but an old, oversized shirt. It hung loose, slipping from her shoulder, still faintly smelling of Asher: pine smoke, desert air, and something darker that never quite went away. Magic. Muscle. Memory.
Behind her, the floor creaked.
A pair of hands slid around her hips. Asher's voice, clearer now, more human but still deep as bedrock, rasped behind her ear. “I thought you were coming back to bed.”
She leaned into him with a smile. “I was going to bring you coffee.”
His lips brushed her shoulder. “Cruel temptation. You smell like sunlight and bloom. I’ll never get used to it.”
She laughed, quiet and warm. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“No,” he murmured. “But I still missed you.”
He turned her to face him.
His eyes had shifted in the last few weeks. Still the glowing gold she knew, but the shape of his face had settled into something more human. The beast was still there, coiled in him.But she saw the man more clearly every day. And she wanted him, like breath in her lungs. Like root to soil.
“Forget the coffee,” she whispered.
He didn’t wait for permission. He lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, mouth already on her throat, then lower, tracing down her chest with an almost possessive hunger.
The buttons of the shirt popped open one by one under his fingers, revealing her inch by inch like an offering. She spread her legs to let him stand between them, her bare thighs gripping his hips. He groaned at the contact, grinding against her so she could feel just how much he needed her.
“You open for me like earth after rain,” he growled.
“Of course I do,” she breathed. “You’re mine.”
His hands moved, one bracing the small of her back, the other sliding between her legs. His thumb found her clit immediately, stroking with slow, deliberate circles that made her hips buck. She grabbed his shoulders for balance, nails digging into his skin as his mouth found her nipple, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.
“Asher—”
He cupped her face, eyes wide and raw. “You let me bloom in you. I’ve never wanted anything more than to come home like this.”
He dropped to his knees.
And then he devoured her.
His tongue was relentless, slow and devastating, circling and dipping, teasing her until she was sobbing his name and clutching the cabinets for something to hold onto. She came hard against his mouth, hips grinding into his face, and he didn’t stop. He loved the taste of her, hummed against her, licked her like she was water and he was dying of thirst.
When he rose again, he didn’t speak.
He lifted her, carried her through the house—their house—kissing her shoulder, her jaw, the sweat along her collarbone. He laid her out in bed with the windows open, the air filled with the scent of blooming creosote and late spring thunder.
And then he fucked her.
Not sweet. Not slow. Claiming.
One hand held her wrists above her head, the other gripping her thigh as he pounded into her, sweat-slick and panting, the rhythm frantic, as if all his months of restraint had finally shattered. Her cries filled the room, echoing off the walls, loud and wild. And when he looked down at her, his face wasn’t beast or man. It was hers.
She came again, shuddering, and he followed with a growl like wind tearing through stone.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and golden morning light.
His cheek rested against her chest, her skin still glowing faintly, warming his face.
She ran her fingers through his hair, slow and sure.
“That felt like something we’ll never be able to name,” she whispered.
