I imagine being bold. Being confident. Being sexy and desirable and everything Beckett could want in a partner.
And I realize in this instant that I don’t need my imagination anymore—my silly, childish fantasies. Because no fantasy could ever be better than the reality of this moment.
It’s right there waiting for me. I just have to reach out and take it.
Except my stomach grows tighter with every step we take, and my breath grows shallower. Because no matter what I imagine—no matter how I want tonight to go—the truth is, I’m none of those things when it comes to sex. Not bold, not confident, and definitely not sexy.
I’m just me. Rain. A girl who’s spent her entire life in a monastery. How could I possibly have thought I could do this?
But I want to. I really, really want to.
By the time we get to the cabin, I’m a nervous, flustered wreck. I try to hide it from Beckett, but as the door closes behind us, I can feel the weight of her yellow eyes on me.
“Hey,” she whispers, sliding her arms around me and pulling me against her, my back to her front. I’ve always hated being short, but as she wraps herself around me, I have to admit it feels nice to be so completely enveloped by her. More than nice. It feels sexy.
“We don’t have to do anything,” she whispers against my ear. “If you’re having second thoughts, it’s okay. We could just sleep.”
“No!” I tell her so forcefully that it’s embarrassing. I can feel my cheeks burning, and for a second I think about agreeing with her. But then this will be just like everything else in my life—a fantasy that I imagined and dreamed about but was never brave enough to reach out and take. And I don’t want that. Not with Beckett.
Not with us.
And so I swallow back every ounce of fear and embarrassment as I turn to face her. After searching for the right words to no avail, I settle for telling the truth. “I’ve never done this before. Slept with someone, I mean. Or…anything else. The Book of the Dying Sun doesn’t forbid relationships, but I’ve never found anyone I wanted to… But I want to. With you.” I reach up and cup her sad, tired, beautiful face in my palms. “I really, really want to.”
She studies my eyes for several seconds, and I don’t know what she sees in them, but it must be enough. Because she whispers, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat, and it suddenly feels like my heart has skipped a few beats.
Beckett smiles softly. “Turn around.”
“Turn—”
“Around.” When I don’t immediately move, she presses her hands gently into my shoulders and moves me until I’m once again facing the bed. But instead of wrapping herself around me this time, she takes the band off the bottom of my braid and starts to slowly unplait my hair.
It doesn’t seem like a sexy thing. But when Beckett does it…when Beckett does it, nothing in the world could possibly feel better.
She takes her time unraveling the braid, takes her time stroking her strong, calloused fingers through my hair until it falls around my shoulders and tumbles down my back. And then she takes her time rubbing those same fingers against my scalp, my neck, my shoulders, until every ounce of tension and worry slides right out of my body and all I can think about is her.
All I can want is her.
“Like sunshine,” she murmurs, running strands of my hair through her fingers. “My own personal sunshine.”
“It’s so boring compared to your curls.” I whisper because I don’t want to break the spell.
“Nothing about you could ever be boring, Rain,” she whispers back. Then she sweeps my hair over my shoulder and leans forward to press her mouth against the nape of my neck.
I gasp as shivers run through me, and she laughs a little, not at me but like she’s delighted with me. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her laugh like this, and I like the sound of it. Warm and soft and open. So unlike the Beckett she shows to the world. So like the Beckett she shows to me.
“Do that again,” I tell her, tilting my head to the side so she can have better access.
This time when she laughs, it’s a little darker, a little more wicked. And I like the sound of it even better.
Instead of kissing me like I requested, she nips at the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and my entire body spins out of my control. My knees tremble, my hands clench, and for several impossible seconds, my lungs forget how to breathe.
She does it again, and the tremble becomes a full-blown shake. It’s all I can do to stay upright as pleasure courses through my body.
“Do you trust me?” she whispers, once again smoothing her hands over my shoulders.
With my life. The words tremble on my lips, but I don’t say them. Not because I don’t mean them—I do; very much—but because Beckett doesn’t trust herself that much. Not even close. And the last thing I want to do right now is get her thinking about all the reasons she isn’t sure we should be doing this.
“Yes,” I finally tell her, leaning back against her so she knows it’s true.
Her mouth is still pressed to my skin, and I can feel her smile as she slides her hands around my waist. She leaves them there for a second, stroking my stomach and the top of my hips until my body starts moving restlessly against her of its own volition.
I tell myself to stay still, to wait for whatever she wants to do next. But it’s so hard to do that when I’m on fire. When my every nerve ending is screaming for more. Screaming for her.
There’s an ache in my belly, a hollowness deep inside me that’s begging for something I never imagined I’d need. Not like this. And that’s before she slides her hands up my ribcage to cup my breasts in her palms.
“Oh!” I gasp, and the first press of her fingers against the underside of my breasts has me moving restlessly against her. “Beckett!”
She stills. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” The word bursts from me like an explosion. “Please don’t.”
There’s that laugh again. “I won’t.” And then her thumbs are sliding back and forth against my nipples, the edges of her nails flicking at them through the thin fabric of my jumpsuit.
“Oh my—” A shudder works its way through me. “Beckett!”
“Oh my Beckett.” She grins against my neck, presses soft kisses all the way up and down it. “I like that.”
“I like it, too,” I gasp out. I’m shuddering now, shaking, my whole body aching for hers in a way I’ve never felt before.
“Good.” Her hands slide up past my breasts, and I whimper a little at the loss. But she just hushes me and slowly, carefully begins removing my jumpsuit.
As her fingers brush against my naked skin, I’ve never been so happy in my life that I didn’t have a clean camisole to wear this morning. And when she finally—finally—peels the jumpsuit off my shoulders and rolls it down my back to my waist, I nearly cry out with joy.
“You have a tattoo,” she says after a moment, tracing the design on my left shoulder with a fingertip. “It’s pretty. Reminds me of the motif on the Starlight.”
“It’s a birthmark,” I tell her of the star surrounded by the rays of light. “All the high priestesses have them. It’s one of the ways they recognize us from birth.”