Page 62 of Forged in Fire
“There,” I say, smoothing the final edge of the bandage into place. “That should hold.”
I start to step back, but his hand catches my wrist. Not restraining, just… holding. His skin is still damp from the shower, and the contact sends electricity racing up my arm.
“Thank you.” The words are quiet, sincere. When I look up, his eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of us moves. We stand there in the steamy bathroom, his hand warm around my wrist, something invisible but undeniable crackling between us. The air feels like it’s carrying an electric current.
I should step away. Put distance between us before this thing building between us gets any more complicated than it already is. But my body doesn’t want to listen to logic. It wants to step closer, to explore this impossible attraction that defies every reasonable objection.
“Iris.” My name on his lips sounds rough, strained.
“This is crazy,” I whisper. “I know all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.”
“Then why—?”
I go up on my toes and kiss him.
It’s supposed to be soft, testing, a gentle exploration of this thing building between us. But the moment our lips touch,gentle disappears. Heat explodes through me, dragon fire recognizing its match, and suddenly we’re pressed together.
His hands slide into my hair, angling my head for deeper access, and I can taste the hunger in him. Years of celibacy, of focusing on nothing but finding Kieran, and now my body is awake in ways I’d forgotten were possible.
My shadows rise unbidden, wrapping around us both, and I feel his power respond—heat flaring against my skin, flames dancing just beneath the surface. We’re fire and shadow, opposites that somehow create perfect balance.
His mouth moves against mine with increasing urgency, and I lose track of where I end and he begins. One of his hands drops to my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us. I can feel the lean strength of his body, the controlled power he usually keeps so carefully leashed.
My hands find the hard planes of his chest, fingers tracing over scars and muscle while he devours my mouth like he’s been starving for this. For me. My flimsy robe and the towel around his waist are the only things between us, and the knowledge makes heat pool low in my belly.
His lips trace along my jaw, grazing my earlobe, and I make a sound I don’t recognize. Desperate. Needy. He responds by pressing me back against the bathroom wall, his body caging me in, surrounding me with heat and want and the intoxicating scent of his freshly washed skin.
“Iris,” he breathes against my throat, and the sound of my name in his rough voice makes something inside me clench with need.
My hands tangle in his damp hair, pulling his mouth back to mine. The kiss deepens, becomes frantic, all-consuming. I can feel his control fraying at the edges, the careful restraint he usually maintains slipping away.
The fabric of my robe whispers as it slides down my shoulder, and then Riven’s mouth is there, lips and tongue tracing fire across newly exposed skin. My head falls back against the cool tile as he explores every inch.
When his hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitized nipples, I arch into his touch with a gasp that echoes off the bathroom walls. Heat pools between my thighs, dragon fire responding to dragon fire, and common sense evaporates completely.
My hands slide down his chest, fingertips tracing a path until I reach the edge of the towel. The terry cloth is soft beneath my palms, but what lies beneath makes my breath catch. He’s hard, straining against the towel, and I want to get my hands on him.
“Iris.” It sounds like a warning, rough and strained.
I meet his gaze, seeing my own hunger reflected in those pale blue eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”
My fingers find the fold of fabric at his hip, and his breath hitches. The towel would fall with the slightest tug. One small movement and there would be nothing between us but want and shadow and flame.
But that doesn’t happen.
He pulls back.
Not violently, not like he’s rejecting what’s happening. But deliberately, creating space between us, even though I can see in his eyes that it costs him.
“We can’t.” His voice is hoarse, strained. “This isn’t…”
“Why not?” I hate that there’s a pleading edge to my voice. Granted, it’s been a long time, but I never expected to be begging for it.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just stands there breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides. I can see the war playing out in his expression—want fighting with something else. Fear, maybe. Or practicality.
