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I was pretty sure that the appropriate reaction to that, or at least the reaction that Dalk would appreciate, was not more tears. I could feel that hiccupping pressure building in my eyes, my throat. But I didn’t want Dalk to feel like he had to comfort me now. Not after everything he’d been through.
So I didn’t cry.
I kissed him.
My kiss was like an adrenaline injection, straight to the heart. His body, previously gone slack apart from where his arms held me, snapped to extraordinary attention, muscles winding, fingers leaping up to possessively cup my face.
For a moment of shattered passion, Dalk forgot everything I’d taught him about kissing, roving over my mouth like a starving man, stabbing his tongues into me with obsessive abandon. I withstood it for as long as I could, wanting to give him what he needed, wanting to give him everything.
He released a rasping growl and withdrew a shuddering moment later, only to drag his mouth in hot, claiming kisses along my cheek, my jaw.
“You do not know,” he groaned against my neck as I hurried to remove my jacket, “how your skin has haunted me. Imagining touching you again, kissing every flower and dark shape upon you. It drove me forward. I dreamed of you so many times. Dreamed of hearing your voice. Smelling your scent. Tasting ink.”
I whimpered at his words, imagining him dreaming of me alone out there when I’d been dreaming of him too. Once unzipped, Dalk ripped off my jacket and tossed it away. I hurried out of my tank top and bra, abandoning them, my nipples hardening.
“I want to learn the names for these,” he whispered fervently, running his thumbs across the native Irish flowers bunched along my left arm, the eyebright and wild clary and the sheep’s-bit. “And I want to learn to read all these words.”
I had several bits of writing intertwined with my various tattoos, including the dates of my Nan’s birth and death, but he was focused on something else, a curling line of cursive text on my inner wrist.
“It’s an Oscar Wilde quote,” I told him. “He was an Irish writer. One of my favourites. It’s a line from a play that actually has a fairly specific context, but I’ve always loved this line just on its own.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ A gutter is like a trough for dirty rain water. Not a very nice place to be. Like I said, it has a specific context within the original work but... I don’t know. It’s always meant something to me in a broader sense. To think that no matter how terrible the circumstances, there’s always something beautiful to be found if you know where to look.”
Dalk’s gaze pulsed, copper points of light fanning out and drawing tight.
“‘Some of us are looking at the stars...’” I said again, whispering.
I didn’t even need to look up to see the stars.
I only needed to look at him.
I kept my eyes open when I kissed him again, watching those sight stars flicker and dance, a whole universe of expression in the face of an often-unreadable man. His gaze flared and spasmed, drew tight with ardent devotion when I got the rest of my clothes off and peeled away his loincloth.
I wanted to make this moment last. I wanted to feel him on every part of me, feel him everywhere before I took him inside my body. I wanted to touch him, tease him, suck him again.
But we were both too desperate, too needy. There would be time for all of that. Later.
I was already wet when I drew up on my knees above him. Dalk gripped my hips, his chest heaving, his fangs glinting in the shadowy light of the cave. I rubbed my clit, and he watched my hand move with lascivious fascination, the tip of his cock nudging against my slick entrance.
My legs shook, and I moaned, rubbing my pussy against him. He was big. It was going to take some work to get myself down onto him, especially with the hurried lack of foreplay.
But I’d never been afraid of a fucking challenge. And if Dalk could be the champion of the toughest combat round of the vaklok, if he could go nights without sleeping just to get back to me, then I could sure as shit do this for him. Ease myself onto him and let him feel me from the inside.
And I wanted it too. Maybe more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. I was nearly crying again with need for him as I trembled in his lap, rocking myself across his impossibly smooth tip while Dalk panted and groaned.
I guessed I was taking too long for him, though. He didn’t rush me, but at one point, his voice ragged and strained, he locked eyes and asked me, “Is this how humans mate? Is this... Is this all there is?”
If I hadn’t been so fucking worked up with emotion I would have burst out laughing.
“No, Dalk,” I said tremulously, bending to kiss his jaw, dragging my tongue along his hide. “This isn’t all there is.”
I relaxed my legs, holding my breath as I began to let him sink into me. Dalk hissed so loudly it was as if my pussy had burned him. His fingers clenched then spastically released on my hips, like he was worried he would bruise me.
The stretch of him inside me was unbelievable, but not painful. I was going too slowly for there to be pain, and Dalk was holding himself back with a warrior’s will, every muscle vibrating with tension, his cock pulsing rhythmically with need. I pushed myself to go a little further, a little faster, rocking onto him, letting my wetness soak him and ease the way.
Oh, God. I was already close. I stopped rubbing myself, putting both my hands on Dalk’s shoulders for stability. Biting my lip, I moved my hips more easily now, giving in to the sensations of pleasure that built behind the feeling of being so overwhelmingly full. I gasped and spasmed when Dalk’s cock spears shifted under my weight and became slightly bent, their flexible points coming into blissfully shivery contact with my swollen clit.
