Roar (Stormheart #1)(81)
The words had rushed out of him, like a current he could not fight, and he had been so concentrated on the words, on saying exactly what he meant, that he did not notice her tears until he was silent. Wet droplets brimmed along her lashes, and with each blink, more tears streaked across her cheeks like shooting stars. He had seen her upset, seen her furious, but never had he seen her look so sad, so broken.
“Ah, princess. Don’t cry.”
She shook her head, her lips trembling, and he touched her again, unable to resist. He wiped away the moisture on her cheeks, cupping her face in his hands.
“I—I can’t—” She choked on the words and clutched a hand to her chest like her heart physically hurt in her chest.
He acted on instinct alone, pulling until she sat in his lap, her side pressed against his stomach and her shuddering body cradled against him. He kissed away a tear at the corner of her eye, and she inhaled sharply before choking out another cry. The wind blustered around them, and he pulled her closer, knowing the shawl she wore provided little warmth. His lips moved over her cheek, less of a kiss and more of a caress.
“What can I do?” he asked, desperate. “Tell me how to help. Tell me.”
She didn’t speak, but she did pull him closer, her willowy arms winding about his neck, until her chest pressed against his own and their foreheads met. He could feel her gasping breaths on his mouth, and he felt the ghost of that touch all the way down his spine. His hands roamed over her back, partly in an attempt to keep her warm and partly out of loss for what else to do. He wanted to understand her, wanted to help, but he had just finished telling her he would not push.
So he rocked her and said whatever words he thought might soothe her. And when he could not help himself, he pressed his lips to her cheek, her temple, her jaw. And with each one, her grip on him tightened until her fingers slid up his neck and tangled in his hair.
She let out a low, keening sound that threated to shred his heart and he begged again, “Tell me how to help. Tell me what to do.”
He did not understand what it was that caused her so much pain. Her past must have been even more complicated than he thought, because it was agony written on her face now, undiluted and overwhelming.
She pressed her lips together and tears darted over them, falling in quick succession. With her hands in his hair, she pulled him closer until his mouth rested against the crest of her cheekbone. “This helps,” she whispered, the words broken.
She turned, and when her mouth met his, the sky broke open and it began to rain.
*
The falling rain was a shock to their senses, and Locke tried to pull away, but Roar held him fast and pushed her lips harder against his. Grief drenched her, filled up her lungs, until she was drowning with every breath. It pressed at her, from outside and within, until she felt like she might be crushed or torn apart at any moment. She could barely breathe, let alone speak.
She knew it wasn’t her sorrow. She had known sadness, but nothing like this, nothing so oppressive that she felt shattered. Irreparable. It was coming from the storm, that much she knew, but she did not understand why. All the other times had been anger, fury, and now this? She was baffled, but in this at least, she posed no danger to anyone else. If she were ever going to find a way to break through the storm’s hold, this was it.
The one thing that helped was the man whose arms were wrapped around her now. The pain didn’t go away, but the closer he was and the more he captivated her thoughts, the more she felt like herself. When his lips met hers, the grief faded to a dull roar in the back of her mind. When his tongue traced at the seam of her lips, begging for entrance, she gave it without another thought.
Even in the soaking rain, heat licked over her skin at the first slide of his tongue against hers. It was different from their last kiss. That had been hard, furious. Now she did not feel so much burned by his touch as that they were burning together. The kiss began slow, seeking, but built as they reacted to each other. He groaned when she buried her fingers deeper in his hair, so she gripped the strands a little tighter. His teeth scraped over her bottom lip, and her whole body shuddered; so he did it again, soothing the sting with his tongue.
Something between desperation and hunger ignited in her, and it made her press back harder, move faster, push closer. His hair was wet in her hands, and the skin of his neck was slick against her forearms. She sat sideways in his lap with her upper body turned to him, and he had been holding her in carefully innocuous places as she cried. But now one hand was dragging from her knee up her thigh, and she ached for him to keep going, to hurry. Toward what, she wasn’t exactly sure.
When he reached the top of her thigh, his hand skated innocently over her hip and fisted the wet fabric of her tunic at the small of her back. He held it there, pressing in against her spine, as if he were trying to imprison his hand so it could not wander.
She wanted to tell him it was unnecessary, but she was afraid that as soon as they separated, the grief would overwhelm her again. So instead she let her own hands wander. She explored his shoulder, but her fingers only slipped over soaked leather that was probably being ruined the longer they sat here. She tugged at the straps on his chest, wishing he were closer, wishing she could feel his skin. She reached for his cheek, the only place she knew she could really touch him, and the stubble along his jaw tickled her palm. He loosed one hand from behind her back to mirror her touch, only his hand was so big that it touched her cheek and her neck, and his fingertips nestled into her wet hair.