Red

Red


REYNA’S POV

His kiss was slow this time — not hesitant, but reverent. Like he was mapping the shape of my lips, committing every curve to memory. His mouth moved over mine with quiet urgency, like he’d been starved for this, for me, and now that he had a taste, he wasn’t letting go.

His hands were warm, large, spreading over the small of my back as he pulled me closer. Every inch of him pressed against me — solid muscle and heat, all caged control and restrained hunger. I could feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers gripped my waist tighter than before, but not too tight. Just enough to remind me that he was here. Real. And that I wasn’t alone anymore.

My chest rose and fell too fast.

My hands curled into the front of his shirt, clutching like I needed something to hold onto — something to keep me grounded while the rest of me was floating.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” he murmured against my lips, voice hoarse and full of something dark and beautiful.

“But you do,” I breathed.

His answer was a sound — not quite a growl, not quite a sigh, but something raw and aching that vibrated through his chest and into mine.

He kissed me again. Slower. Deeper.

Then his lips moved lower — over the corner of my mouth, along my jaw, down the column of my throat. My head tilted instinctively, a soft gasp slipping past my lips as his tongue brushed the place just below my ear. That small, hidden spot that made my knees weak.

Draven groaned softly, like my reaction did something to him, like he was fighting not to lose himself. His hands roamed with aching patience — one hand rising under the back of my shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of my spine, tracing the dip of my back like a prayer.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered against my neck.

“I know,” I whispered back. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He sank to his knees before me, and my breath caught.

Not in a way that made me feel small or powerless — but cherished. Like a goddess on an altar.

His hands gripped my hips gently, grounding me. His lips brushed just beneath my belly button, then lower, then back up — never rushing. Never greedy. Just tasting. Exploring.

His fingers curled around the hem of my shirt.

“May I?”

I nodded. Couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight.

He pulled the shirt over my head with a reverence that felt like worship. His gaze flicked up to mine, and the heat in his eyes stole the air from my lungs.

“Beautiful,” he said, more to himself than to me.

His fingers ghosted over my ribs, slow and careful, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he touched too much too fast. My skin tingled everywhere he brushed, as if his touch lit trails of stardust over me.

I reached for him, needing to feel his skin too, to touch and memorize the man who made me feel like more than just wanted — like I was sacred.

He let me.

Pulled his shirt over his head and let me see all of him.

The sharp lines of his chest, the scars carved into his skin like stories I hadn’t heard yet, the muscles rippling with tension as I ran my fingers over him.

And his eyes never left mine. Not once.

“I’m not taking you tonight,” he said softly, voice full of smoke and restraint. “But I want to know you. I want you to feel every part of me. I want you to know how deeply I’ve already chosen you.”

Tears burned behind my eyes.

Because no one had ever looked at me like this before.

No one had ever touched me like this before.

Every other touch in my life had taken.

His gave.

And in that moment, beneath his hands, beneath his eyes, I wasn’t broken.

I was whole.

His fingers slid up, tracing the slope of my shoulder, then down the length of my arm as though he were painting invisible patterns into my skin. Every stroke sent shivers through me, made my breath catch in my throat. When his palm finally settled on the side of my face, cradling it gently, I leaned into his touch like it was the only thing tethering me to the world. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, slow and reverent, then down over my bottom lip, which he watched like it was his most treasured secret. I didn’t know a single person could look at another with such open hunger and gentleness at once — like he wanted to devour me and protect me in the same breath. And when he leaned in again, not to kiss me this time but to press his forehead against mine, I felt it — the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. The love he didn’t know how to name yet. The fear. The need. The ache. All of it, crashing between us like a second heartbeat.

His lips hovered just above mine, not touching, only breathing the same air, and that almost drove me mad. The tension between us was unbearable — thick and pulsing like a living thing. I could feel the warmth of his breath, feel the tremble in his fingers as they trailed slowly down my neck, pausing right above my racing pulse. “Do you feel that?” he whispered, voice low, dark, delicious. “That’s what you do to me.” Then he dipped lower, his mouth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, barely there, just enough to make my knees weak. I let out a soft, involuntary sound — part gasp, part plea — and he responded with a groan so deep it made my whole body ache. When his lips finally met the base of my throat, brushing where the mark might one day bloom, I felt like I was unraveling, thread by thread, with only his touch to hold me together. His hands slid over my waist, possessive, gentle, grounding — like he needed me as much as I needed him, and in that moment, I wasn’t scared of the bond or the unknown. I was just a girl, aching for the boy who had waited a lifetime to feel again.

He looked up at me again, "if I get too rough, what's your safe word?"
I didn’t understand
"Safe word Reyna" he asked again pulling me out of my thoughts
" Red."
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