Chapter 90: My Turn
- RAYA -
Dex kicks the door shut to his room and drops me softly onto the bed, descending with me as he does. And now that he has navigated us safely here, I can take his mouth fully again—demanding his full attention.
He growls again in that playful, soft possession that calls something in my chest to rise up and arch toward him, and my hands drop to find the hem of his shirt, the waistband of his pants, the feel of his skin under my fingers until he shivers and breaks the kiss.
"Can I ask you something?" He says, his breath against my lips with the question. "It’s not sexy, but it’s important."
"What?"
He pulls far enough away to look into my eyes, and his hands caress my hair, smoothing it away from my face and spreading it out across the pillow.
"Will you not endanger yourself like that again? Even when you’re mad at me? Or mad at yourself? Or mad at whoever?" His honey brown soulful gaze is looking back and forth between my eyes and then sweeping over my face where it lands on my lips.
"You mean by going to the apartment today?" I frown.
He reaches up and runs a finger over my bottom lip, attention caught by the soft pout it has become. He dips to take it between his teeth and tug on it gently before letting it go with a small smile.
"Yes, that’s what I mean," he says. "It was dangerous. If you would have knocked on that door and confronted him..."
"I will do my best," I say with a crooked smile. "We don’t always know what’s going to be dangerous ahead of time."
"You knew that was dangerous though, didn’t you?"
"I was too angry to care," I admit, returning to the hem of his shirt and attempting to lift it, but then he pulls further away and glares down at me.
"You can’t be too angry to care, Raya. Don’t endanger yourself. Please." His brows furrow, angling toward concern and fear for something I might do in the future.
"Okay, I won’t," I groan, and it rolls into a chuckle. "Why are you so worried?"
He swallows, and I watch it—the roll of that motion in his throat. Why is it that everything he does is sexy?
"I have this very powerful instinct to protect you," he says—the admission deep, dipping and resonating on some unseen cord strung between us that his voice and his growls always seem to pluck effortlessly.
Rather than answer, I bite my lip and try to pull him back toward me. He relents, descending so that my greedy hands can find his sides and run along his back, attempting to assure him with my touch, but his eyes remain on me—focused on the question he has posed. He is waiting for some kind of audible response that assures him I will help protect myself and in turn this overwhelming instinct that has apparently claimed him.
"Don’t make me angry then," I tease.
"I’m serious," he rakes a hand over his face.
"Okay, I’m sorry," I giggle. "I will not knowingly endanger myself, Dex. Okay? Now will you kiss me?"
He sighs and gazes at me a moment more before doing as I’ve requested, and then it’s like his body reminds him where we were and his concern finally lets go. I’m finally allowed to pull his shirt up along his torso, and he finishes pulling it off over his head.
"God, you’re so sexy," I whisper, feeling the ridges along his stomach and the way he somehow trembles under my touch. "How are you real?"
"I think I’m real because you’re real," he murmurs, kissing down my neck and running his hands up my shirt—careful to avoid the stitches. "I’m here because you’re here."
"What does that even mean?" I whisper again, my mind slowly spiraling further away from any logic with each touch, each kiss... each connection between the two of us that fuels the intense desire that has us both entangled in the unseen world already. I’m already coupled with him somehow. Now it’s just our bodies attempting to catch up.
"I don’t know what it means," he smiles against my skin and then lifts my shirt off and groans before descending to my breasts and making me rise up, arching toward him, whimpering with the heat of his mouth on that sensitive skin. He sucks and licks and nibbles until I’m writhing under him with a fire raging, waiting to consume me.
"My turn," I tell him, pushing him to the side and urging him to lie back.
"I really want you to know that you don’t have to..." he starts but then breaks into a groan when my hand glides against the firm bulge in his pants and I start kissing his stomach. "Raya, for real."
He tries to tug me by the arms, but I growl against his skin and start pulling the waistband of his pants down. When his cock springs free and my hand wraps around it, I hear him whimper. This time it’s loud enough that I’m sure that’s the sound I hear, and suddenly I understand the protective feeling he is speaking of. That instinct unfolds from somewhere deep within, wishing to both protect and devour at the same time. I don’t want him to whimper from pain—not at the hands of me or anyone else—but I desperately want to make him whimper for all the right reasons.
I glance up and see him watching me—all concern and worry—so I grab his hand and thread our fingers together at the same moment that I take the sacred, beautifully engorged part of him into my mouth. He groans, his head dropping back and hand squeezing mine before I hear that whimper again that urges me on.
We’ve done this in dreams. I already know how he likes to be touched. I already know how he fits in my mouth and how even just the slow way I take him in causes him to groan. But I’m only allowed to act this out in real life for a few minutes before he is pulling himself up, reaching for me to return to his mouth and eagerly kissing me like he has been starved of it for too long.
He flips me onto my back, pulling the rest of my clothes off until we are both bare against each other. Then he stops, pausing above me, his breath warm, his skin comforting and perfect and absolutely real. But he stops, looking back and forth between my eyes once again—searching for something.
"We’ve done this before," I remind him. "This isn’t the first time. And I’m not going to break. I promise. Please," I whisper, lifting myself to kiss him, to curl my fingers into his hair. "I told you I won’t endanger myself. I need you to trust me, too. Trust me to know what I can and can’t handle, Dex."
"Tell me if I hurt you," he says, his touch gliding between us, sending a shiver down to my toes with how gently he traces his fingers up the center of my stomach and then along the underside of my breast like he’s once again memorizing these paths that he has traced before in dreams.
I nod my agreement. "I will tell you."
And then he kisses me again—this time slow and savoring. He finally presses that sacred part of himself against me—his hard against my soft—and I open to receive him, holding my breath until he’s finally in and a sense of wholeness floods me, blanketing all the fear, coming into all the places that I didn’t realize were waiting for him.
His breath rushes out and forehead kisses mine, and we both just stay like that—breathing together, entangled together, silently appreciating this profoundly simple and perfect moment.
It’s not just our bodies—it’s more. It’s deeper.
He’s home. He’s mine.
When he kisses me again, it’s gentle at first. He’s careful and sweet, and it isn’t until I wrap my legs around his waist that it turns growly and urgent again, and I’m smiling against his lips with the way his fear of hurting me falls away and the passion takes over.
"Raya," he breathes, dipping to kiss my neck as he moves inside of me—gliding, thrusting, dipping—all movements that I have felt before, but this time it’s real. This time it’s not just a fantasy. Right?
"Bite me, Dex," I whisper, and he stops, paused over me, something feral appearing to flash behind his eyes. "I want to know this is real, and I want to remind myself later that it was real," I breathe, pulling him forward with my legs, sliding him further into me with the movement and making him tuck his lips into his mouth and groan.
"It’s real," he insists, kissing my neck again and making me arch, my breasts pressing against his chest.
"Please," I whimper. "I want you to bite me."
"Where?" He asks, but I have a sense that he already knows where he wants to do it. There is the soft growl of possession as an undercurrent to his words, and it’s like he’s just waiting for me to confirm something for him. "Where would you like me to bite you, principessa?"
"Anywhere you want. As long as it leaves a mark."
