Page 42 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
His hand came to her ankle, not touching the pain, but cradling the edge of her calf like she was something fragile. His eyes moved over her body like he was checking for damage, and then permission.
Where his hand rested, something changed. The hot, tight throbbing in her ankle unraveled with each beat of his pulse against her skin. The swelling receded. The fire dimmed. She gasped with relief.
Her body responded to him like he’d always known how to hold it.
Nora sucked in air, the feeling of his fingertips electric on her skin. They brushed along her jaw, up behind her ear, as gentle and slow as the moon rising. She turned into it. Her body lit up under his touch. Nothing had ever felt so gentle, or so loaded.
He cupped her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone, and then let his fingers trail downward. To her throat. Her collarbone. Then lower.
Nora’s breath hitched as his hand found her breast. He was tentative at first, just a touch through the fabric of her shirt. But her nipple tightened immediately, a rush of heat drumming low in her core. He seemed to notice her reaction. His thumb brushed across it again, slow and curious.
She moaned softly and arched toward him. Her thighs clenched together, heat pooling hard between them.
A flicker of something passed through his face, like hunger or restraint, or maybe pain.
He hesitated. His hand paused.
And she lifted her hips. Just a little. An instinct. It was enough.
One of his hands slid up her thigh, rough-skinned and hot, the contrast nearly violent against her flushed skin. She gasped, her hips tilting toward him.
He paused. Waiting. His eyes flicked to hers, asking a question without words.
“Let me,” he said, voice low, like wind over stone.
She met his eyes. “Please.”
That single word broke something loose.
He exhaled hard, the sound almost a growl, not human at all.
Then he moved between her legs, lowering himself until his breath warmed her inner thigh. He pulled down her shorts, tenderly passing them over her hurt ankle. One of his hands anchored her at the hip; the other gently parted her legs. His fingertips, textured like bark smoothed by river water, brushed the inside of her thigh as he opened her.
She was already wet. Already pulsing.
Then he lowered his mouth to her, his hot breath on her clit making her jolt.
The first drag of his tongue was slow. Deep. From the base of her up to her clit, one long, wet, hot stroke that made her gasp like she’d touched something live.
Nora’s fingers clawed at the blanket. Her eyes rolled back.
He dragged his tongue through her again, thick and hot, textured like velvet and stone, some inhuman ridging along the underside that made her cry out when it passed her clit.
She grabbed the edge of the cushion. Her hips jolted.
“Oh god,” she gasped. “Oh—fuck—what is—”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t answer.
He held her open with hands far too big, thumbs spreading her apart so his mouth could move deeper, slower, like a blessing and a punishment all at once.
Nora’s legs trembled. She looked down at his glowing eyes and saw his tongue. Longer and wider than any human’s, it was broad and flat, but not smooth. Its underside bore raised ridges, sinuous and faintly patterned, like the markings on desert stone worn by wind and time. The ridges brushed over her in waves,not sharp, but firm. Like they were designed to pull sound from her throat and heat from her spine.
He licked her again. Slower.
Nora’s mouth opened. No words came.
He licked her another time, dragging the ridged center over her clit just slightly longer. Her thighs quivered. Her back arched.
