Page 67 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
But it cracked something open between them.
He inhaled, slow, deep, full, as if her motion had drawn breath into his body. Like he hadn’t breathed at all until she closed that inch of space.
She took another.
The humming started again. That low, magnetic pull that had always preceded him in dreams. But this wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t asleep. And the heat was real. And so was the ache beneath it.
Her hand lifted before she could stop it. She reached up slowly, like the air might resist her, and touched his cheek.
His skin was warm. Not fever-hot like in the dreams, but dense, radiant, like sun-warmed stone. The texture wasn’t smooth. It was like polished bark, or sanded obsidian. Tough and elegant, built by time and weather.
His eyes closed, just for a second. Just long enough for her to know he felt it.
She didn’t pull away.
Her thumb grazed the line of his cheekbone, her palm settling against the side of his face, and she tilted her head slightly, her breath catching when he leaned into it.
He made a sound then. Barely audible.
A breath, a groan, something like grief laced with awe. It vibrated through him like it hurt to hold back.
Her other hand rose, found the plane of his chest, wide, solid, still as stone, and rested there. His skin was ridged with old scars or runes, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. It was him. And he was here.
Her body was already wet. Already aching. And she knew he could feel it, smell it in the air, taste it in her breath.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “If you want to.”
His eyes opened and met hers.
And in that golden depth she saw something fracture. Not because he was uncertain, but because he couldn’t believe he’d been given permission.
He lifted his hand.
Large, reverent, slow.
His fingertips hovered just above her jaw, his palm trembling slightly.
And then—
He touched her.
His fingers brushed the curve of her neck, then her collarbone, touching her with a gentleness that made her knees go weak.
That hand. That heat.
It was him.
But not a dream.
She grabbed the hem of her nightshirt and pulled it over her head.
Tossed it aside like it had no relevance here.
Now she stood bare before him, skin kissed pink from the rising sun, nipples hardening under his gaze, stomach trembling.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t devour her.
Just saw her.
