Page 17 of Healing His Mate

He kisses me hard, as if he wishes to devour me whole. Then he lifts me easily off the table and drops me into his lap with my legs straddling him. I feel his hard length growing beneath his pants, and I become desperate for the friction it will cause. I grind down on him––my cunt getting slicker by the moment.

I need him inside me. Reaching for the waist of his pants, I rub my body against him, seeking contact with every part of him.

When his hand cups my breast, I am thrown unexpectedly into the past. A blurry face and body sit beneath me, just as Waldric is now, a hand cupping my breast and gripping my back as I arch and cry out in pleasure. A memory. This is a memory!

The image is not clear enough for me to identify the owner of the lips mine are pressed against, but it is clear enough to indicate that person is not Waldric. His hair is silver and shorn close to his scalp. Throwing my head back, I see that I am in my shop, straddling the clothed cock of a male in my clan, but not the male I am with now.

Confused and a bit shaken by the image, I pull back, averting my gaze from Waldric. I am not ashamed to know I have sought out sexual pleasure from another male. Not in the slightest. As an unmated female, it is my right. What I was not expecting was the cloak of shame I feel while in the lap of this other male.

It was as if I were rushing my way through the encounter so my orgasm would arrive, and I could be done with it. I felt nothing for that male. If anything, it was mild irritation that his cock was required to make me feel good. Why could I not replicate that experience on my own? Why did I need anyone to achieve sexual release?

“Are you well?” Waldric asks, reaching up and running his thumb along my cheek. “Was it a memory?” His orange eyes search mine, concern etched on his friendly face.

Waldric does not make me feel shame. I am surprised to find that in his arms, I feel cared for. Cherished. I enjoy that feeling. The taste of him lingers on my lips, the richness of the viiki remains as well, making me crave more of what we just did.

But what irks me is why the old Nalba would seek this other male for sexual pleasure when it did not make her feel good. Was there a greater purpose in it? Did he inspire her ongoing projects in some way?

“Uh,” I finally mumble. “I am fine. Just a flash of something, but I could not tell what.” Clearing my throat, I rise from his lap and return to my stool on the other side. I pull my plate back in front of me and resume eating. “Tastes good.”

“What . . . why did you do that?” Waldric asks, his chest still heaving. There is a bit of kuhnypa juice lingering on his lips, making them glisten in the light. His mane is a mess, the knot he tied it into almost falling out completely. I want to return to his lap and finish what we were about to start, but the ghost of humiliation interrupted us. Now he asks a worthy question I am reluctant to answer.

I focus on the meal, tearing the viiki-covered bread into smaller pieces, then stacking those pieces in a neat pile on the plate.I could not stop myself,I want to say.I became so desperate for your lips that it felt like they would grant me immortality.Instead, I say, “I wanted to,” with a shrug. This feels how old Nalba would handle this particular situation, I think. Given the little I have learned about her, she seems to do what she pleases.

“I see,” he says, using his fist to wipe his mouth clean. He pats down the front of his shirt and straightens his spine as if he is not sure what to do next. Guilt pumps through my blood. I should apologize for my behavior. That is the right thing to do.

I finish chewing and take a sip of water from the mug at my right. “There is, um, something I woul–”

He does not let me finish. “Does this mean if I want to kissyou, I can do so whenever I wish?”

“I suppose that depends,” I reply with a smirk. “How often do you wish to kiss me?”

I am no fool. It is clear that Waldric is attracted to me. He must want to kiss me often.

Waldric’s gaze heats, and it feels like my skin is on fire. “You will know when I kiss you.”

I am surprised. This is not what I expected him to say. Tilting my head to the side, I study him as he chuckles and returns to his meal. His jaw is hard and forms a square shape. I trace the planes of it with my eyes, shifting downward. And his neck . . . it is as wide as my thigh, but there is a grace to the length of it as well. How can something be strong and also elegant? How is that combination possible?

A flash of black ink peeks out from the neck of his tunic, and I see a bit of his tattoo. It must be massive. I find I am disappointed that I cannot see the rest of it. What is the shape? How much of his body does it cover? When did he get it? I am curious about all these things.

“I feel your eyes on me, female,” he says without looking up. “You have questions, yes? Ask them.”

How big is your cock? May I have a taste?

“Have you always been a cook?” I ask instead. “I do not remember seeing you at the market stalls on Trovilia.”

“That is because I was a warrior on Trovilia.” He swallows a bite of bread and takes a sip of water. I watch, entranced by the movement of his throat as he drinks. It makes my mouth suddenly go dry. “But I enjoyed cooking more, so when Varrek asked me to join him here, I requested to become the clan’s cook. His crew was strong enough without me.”

“You did not enjoy the thrill of battle?”

“No,” he scoffs. “I do not wish to extinguish life. I want only to nourish it. With food, I am able to do that.”

I nod. Another unexpected response. I cannot pinpoint why, or where this thought originated from, but I always assumed the cooks of Trovilia were forced into the trade due to a lack of other options. I never considered it to be a sought-after skill.

But what do I know? My entire life was chosen for me the day I created an automatic lace fastener for boots as a young girl. It was after Ekoya tripped on a loose lace and nearly choked on the bread she stole from me. The design was praised by the king and became a staple on every pair of boots made.

From that moment on, I was Yignnuf’s apprentice. My path was to become Trovilia’s top inventor. That is what Yignnuf wanted for me. What my parents wanted for me. I do not remember if that is whatIwanted for myself, but I assume it was.

Waldric looks at me as if challenging me to respond. His expression is tight and mildly vexed. I do not understand why.

---