Page 76 of Star-Crossed
By the time they’d limped the truck back to Cy’s place, the smoke from the main fire had waned, though the residual turned the sunset a blood-orange hue.
Lyra’s muscles ached, and her clothes reeked of smoke, but a contentment settled over her like she’d never before felt in her life.
As Cy guided her through the door of his home, the lights flickered on, enveloping them in a warm glow. His grip on her wrist tightened as he walked her toward the bathroom, stopping to peel away her clothing one article at a time. They shared each other’s breath in silent reverence until the last layer was removed and she stood just shy of naked before him.
He took a seat on the wide ledge of the tub before motioning for her to come closer. Still without speaking, she reached out and released the clasp that held his prosthesis in place, allowing it to slip from his body with such trust and ease, this could have been her one hundredth time rather than her first.
The hot water enveloped them in a warm embrace as they settled into the vast tub. Cy washed her first, treating her with adoration and tenderness rather than passion. He seemed to want to understand her body in a way that could only be felt—to learn every inch of her from head to toe. Not like a lover, but an intimate. He washed her hair, behind her ears. His breath was warm against her shoulder as he caressed her neck.
Lyra leaned back and breathed in the feeling of being loved and cared for as his fingers moved around her throat and chest, over her breasts and down to her stomach, then to each leg. Cy left trails of shivers behind him as his hands traveled along her limbs.
Once he was finished, she gently reciprocated, taking the same effort in washing his body and using extra care with his limb. She used delicate, broad-headed strokes to remove any dirt or sweat collected during their battle against the fire. As she bathed him, his muscles noticeably relaxed beneath her fingertips until all tension melted away completely.
She slid her hands over his chest, the hard planes of muscle, the ridge of scar tissue along his knee and lower. He inhaled sharply at her touch but didn’t pull away.
She wanted to know him, too. It was important to her.
Hewas important to her. This man. This wounded, wonderful man with his soulful, dark eyes and a heart big enough to encompass the entire world.
“Stay?” Spoken in a low rumble, the word almost disappeared into the swirling, steamy atmosphere of the bathroom.
It contained questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
And a request she’d be a fool to deny.
Once the water turned tepid, they used the detached showerhead to rinse down and then dried off before lurching to the bedroom in exhaustion.
Once enfolded in his embrace, she reached between their bodies, wrapping her hand around his erection and stroking slowly.
A groan rumbled in his chest. “Lyra…we should talk—”
“Shh.” She silenced him with another kiss, losing herself in the taste of him, the feel of his hands and mouth on her.
There were words to be said. Things to be worked out. Nuances to unravel.
But none of that mattered right now.
He returned the kiss with passion and need, rolling her onto her back. He explored her body with a sense of wonder, feathering worshipful caresses over her curves, igniting a fire beneath her flesh.
His mouth seared her own, fanning the flames into an inferno.
When he thrust himself into her, she gasped out his name in rapturous surprise, clinging to him for dear life. Every stroke of their bodies built the intensity higher and higher until it felt almost unbearable. With each movement they drew closer, enraptured, until finally the pleasure erupted, coursing through her body with blinding force like a raging sea beating against the shore.
At her low cry, Cy thrust into her a final time, clutching her close as he found his own release with a guttural, primal sound.
Gazing up at him, Lyra felt her breath taken by a surge of warmth and affection flooding her. In this moment, she could sense the threads of connection binding them together, as if every time they’d been thrown together, the universe might have been giving them some kind of directive. Telling them what was meant to be.
She lay in Cy’s arms until his breath had deepened and his muscles went slack but for the occasional twitch. She watched the shadows of the trees play across the wall in the moonlight, trying to calculate the trajectory of the breeze.
Her body screamed for sleep, but she couldn’t seem to let it drag her under.
If she slept now, morning would come for her. Morning was where the truth lived, and somehow her truth was shifting. Transmuting. Becoming more nebulous and opaque.
After a bit, she gave in to the need to pee, then her restless spirit sent her drifting around the cabin like a ghost, committing it to memory.
The main living space wasn’t as spare as the bedroom, adorned in colorful woven rugs and pottery crafted by local Salish artisans. Lyra wandered through, trailing her fingers over the knickknacks and trinkets that hinted at Cy’s heritage. There were carvings of ravens, otters, and whales. Dreamcatchers dangling from the ceiling. A collection of sea glass, stones, fossils, and shells lining the windowsills.
She felt at peace here in a way she never had before. The clean lines and natural materials soothed her senses, a balm after years surrounded by the cold sterility of chrome and glass.
