Page 81 of The Shape of Silence

At the same time, he nudged his boots off, one by one, and reached for the ties of his breeches, all the while watching her—no, studying her, as if trying to memorize this moment that would never be repeated. He undressed without the reticence or hesitation he must have seen in her, as if the act itself was neither performance nor invitation but simply the next irrevocable step in what they’d already begun. His shirt gone, his sword and belt set aside, he slipped the breeches and underwear over his hips, exposing skin as pale as his chest was tan, and marked by yet another constellation of old wounds, each scar a story she didn’t know. And below that, the part of him she had no experience with, hard and urgent in a way that sent a cold thread of nervousness through the heat he’d created in her. Her eyes moved there once and then away, her throat tightening. There was nothing shy or veiled about the way he stood before her; the vulnerability in him was not in his nakedness, but in the way his eyes searched hers for some sign of refusal, of fear, or even regret.

There was none. Avery watched—hungry, curious, unafraid.

He stepped toward her again, and as he did, she realized she had never seen a man so physically certain, so perfectly at home in his own body, and yet so patient with hers. His hands returned to her, again at her waist, and this time, with both of them nearly bare, the briefest contact sparked a line of fire down her spine. She felt his breath, warm and uneven, stirring against her lips; she smelled the smoky tang of woodfire and the mineral sharpness of sweat and skin. He paused there, so close their bodies all but touched, waiting for her to close the gap.

She did, leaning into him, the press of her breasts against his chest making her shudder in delight. He shivered as well, his whole body tightening beneath her touch. The sensation of his skin under her palms—the heat, the solidness, the reality of it—was overwhelming. She pressed her mouth to the place where his neck met his shoulder, and felt his pulse hammering there, wild and unsteady.

His mouth found hers again, and this time the kiss was deeper, more urgent. His tongue tangled with hers, exploring with a hunger that matched her own. She answered him without hesitation, her hands sliding over the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscle beneath her fingertips. The heat of him seeped into her, chasing away the last of her shyness, leaving only the raw, aching need to be closer. She could feel the hard length of him pressing between her legs, even through the layers of cloth that separated them, and the sensation sent a jolt of awareness through her that was both thrilling and terrifying.

They continued for what felt like both a heartbeat and forever, exploring each other with awkwardness, tenderness, and then growing sureness, until he made a low, ragged sound in the back of his throat, and then his hands stilled. He lifted her down from the counter’s edge and set her on her feet before him. She felt the loss of his warmth immediately, but he did not go far—only dropped to one knee at her feet, unhurried, and began working at the laces of her short boots with the same focused attention he gave everything. He drew each one off and set it aside. His hands moved slowly up her legs and he rose, his fingers arriving at her waist next, thumbs hooking the fabric at her belly, pulling at the ties and drawing down her pants with a deliberateness that made her knees unsteady. Her hose and underwear followed, and he bent to remove them from one leg and the other. When he rose, he took her face in both hands and kissed her once, softly, before finding her mouth again and walking her back, unhurried, until the cot met the backs of her legs.

Morggán sent his thigh between her legs at the same time he lowered her, his knee guiding them onto the mattress, his arm sliding around her back to catch her fall. The furs on her bed met her back, soft and yielding beneath her, and Morggán came down over her, his weight settling between her legs with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her gasp.

She felt the weight of him in every sense—his size, his strength, his absolute control. There was nothing between them, no distance, no clothing, no pretense. She was bare to him, and he to her, and for a moment, neither moved. They only looked at one another, both breathing hard.

Then, as if by unspoken command, they moved together. She lifted her legs to better accommodate him, wrapping them around his lean hips. She felt the hard, insistent heat of him pressed between her thighs, and for the first time a jolt of real fear ran through her—not of him, but for her own blindness, her own inexperience, her own hunger.

But then he touched her breast again and Avery sank into the mattress, trying to halt the wild and unexpected rush of excitement stirred by his mouth covering her breast, his tongue licking at her nipples. Soon enough she was arching her back and holding his head close as he brought each nipple to perfect arousal. He showed her the connection between different parts of her, how the attention given to her breasts created a swirling, wanton heat between her legs. Avery began to rub against him, opening her legs wider so that he touched her more intimately, so that this building thing inside her grew stronger and stronger.

Before she’d even grown accustomed to the feel of him above her, so intimately pressed against her, he drew back slightly. His hand slipped between them, exploring her with slow, deliberate curiosity. His fingertips skimmed over the curve of her hip, traced the line of her ribs, lingered over her breast and its still-sensitive peak before gliding downward once more, disappearing into the soft triangle of hair between her legs.

A breathless gasp escaped her as his touch remained maddeningly light, teasing rather than satisfying. Already impatient, she breathed more quickly, lifting her hips instinctively toward his hand, silently asking for more.

He continued his gentle caress, his fingers moving in slow, unhurried passes until she was writhing beneath him, whispering his name and pleading softly. Only then did he finally touch her fully, parting her with exquisite care. His fingers stroked her with aching slowness, drawing another helpless sound from her lips. She trembled beneath him, every breath catching in her throat, until at last he deepened the caress, and she answered him instinctively, her body moving against the fingers inside her.

When she was wild with need, heading expectantly toward some heady resolution, he withdrew his hand, and Avery opened her eyes, looking at him with sorrowful confusion. His gaze remained fixed on hers as he settled himself over her once more, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of her head.

The head of his cock met with the very center of her and Avery somehow knew this would complete her and deliver to her what her inexperienced body craved right now. She moved her hips to draw him closer yet, heard him growl, suggesting he liked it, and she shifted again.

He nuzzled against her cheek, then her ear, then her neck, murmuring something inaudible but urgent and soft. His hands, so large and rough, gentled her with a reverence she would never have expected. He lifted her, just enough to align them, and for the first time she felt the press of his body poised against her entrance. His lips returned to hers as he flexed his hips and answered her want of more, entering her slowly. With his elbows and forearms on either side of her head, pressing into the mattress and pillow, he watched her as he barely pushed inside her. Avery stared back, her fingers digging into his sides with this new sensation, and wished now for so much more light to see him, to see if he felt what she did, how beautiful and perfect and right this was. She saw only that his eyes were shiny in the darkness and that he breathed through his mouth as he watched her.

“Ye are wet, love,” he murmured huskily, “but I want ye wetter still to make the joining easier.”

And with that, he moved slowly in and out, hardly breaching at all, and yet, oh, the sensations.

Avery’s breath quickened as she felt Morggán teasing her with a slow in-and-out motion. There was no pain, only heat and pressure, and the newness of it all was incredibly titillating. She closed her eyes, focusing solely on the sensations coursing through her body. Every deliberate movement sent a wave of pleasure through her, making her gasp softly and whimper with each gentle thrust, until finally he entered her with a careful, measured force, enough to break through, enough to open her eyes.

There was pain, yes, but not so much as to overpower the sensation of being filled, being claimed by him. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back, and as the pain faded, it was replaced by a slow-building warmth that moved through her like morning sunlight overtaking the frost.

He was careful at first, moving in shallow, patient strokes, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath shuddering. She could feel every line of his body—every muscle, every tremor of restraint. He was holding himself back, waiting for her to adjust, to catch up. When the discomfort finally bled away, when it left only a sweet, rolling pressure that grew and grew, she let him know with a whispered, “Yes,” a response that was more plea than anything else.

Everything after that was pure sensation. She heard him say her name—once, twice, maybe more than that—his voice low and unsteady in a way she had not heard from him before. She didn’t know how much time passed. Her body felt things it had never known before, wanted things she hadn’t known to want. Lost in the whirlwind of sensation, she teetered on the edge of an unknown abyss, her body responding to his with a hunger she had never known. The heat between them grew, a palpable force that drew them closer together with each thrust. Morggán’s hold on her tightened, his pace quickening as the tension coiled tighter and tighter within them.

And when the wanting finally broke open, she made a sound she did not recognize as her own voice. She felt a rush of warmth spreading through her body, originating at the very center of her. It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced before, a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed over her in relentless waves. Every nerve ending seemed to come alive, every inch of her skin tingling with an electric current that shot straight to her core.

Morggán continued to pump, faster and faster still, even while Avery was spent and amazed, until he lunged one last time against her and went still with a low grunt and a drawn-out, brutal sigh.

They were motionless then, and for quite some time, her legs limp now against the bed. Morggán lay between her legs, his breathing heavy while he held himself perfectly unmoving inside her. Avery was acutely aware of him throbbing within her and moved her hips experimentally.

He shook his head from side to side, though he could not seem to lift it. “Nae, love—nae more torment.”

The endearment settled over her almost as deeply as everything else they had shared.

Love.

He had only ever called her lass or by her name, but never that.

A quiet happiness spread through her, deeper than excitement and steadier than relief. She had given herself to Morggán without reservation, and rather than feeling diminished by it, she felt—strangely enough—as if she were always meant to be here. Whatever it truly meant to belong to another, she knew with perfect certainty that she did not regret it. Of all the impossible things that had happened since she had awakened alone in this strange world, this was the first that felt unquestionably, undeniably right.