The days following the afternoon in the cove passed for Ina in a blur of sun-drenched delirium. The world had taken on a new, heightened clarity. The purple of her lavender seemed more vibrant, the song of the birds more sweetly complex, the very air she breathed felt charged with a potential she had never known before. It was as if Juraj's presence had tuned her senses to a frequency closer to the hum of the earth itself.
Her confession in the water had not driven him away. Instead, it had built a bridge of profound trust between them. They spent their days together—long walks along the coastal paths where he would name every plant and stone with an ancient, familial knowledge, quiet afternoons in her shop where he would simply watch her work, his presence a warm, steady sun in the corner of the room. He asked about her life, her family, her dreams for the small lavender business with a focus that made her feel like the most fascinating subject in the world. He listened, truly listened, in a way no one ever had.
And through it all, the tension simmered. It was a low, sweet thrum beneath every glance, every accidental brush of hands. It was in the way his soil-dark eyes would linger on her mouth when she spoke, the way his voice would drop to that intimate, resonant register when they were alone. He was a god of passion, and his restraint was a tangible force, a leashed power that she could feel in the very air around him. It was both a comfort and a delicious, agonizing torment.
On the fourth evening, as a soft twilight began to bleed the sky with hues of lavender and rose, he came to her cottage. She saw him approach from her kitchen window, his tall, powerful frame moving with that innate, predatory grace through her lavender field. Her heart, as it always did at the sight of him, performed a frantic, joyful leap.
He was not empty-handed. In one hand, he carried a bottle of wine, its glass dark and promising. In the other, a woven basket from which emanated the most delicious aromas—roasted meat, herbs, and freshly baked bread. It was a simple, courtship gesture, yet from him, it felt like an offering.
She met him at the door, her smile shy but genuine. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," he said, his gaze sweeping over her, warming her from the inside out. She had chosen a simple, light cotton blouse the color of cream and a long, flowing skirt. It was modest, but the fabric was soft and thin, and she was acutely aware of the fact that she wore nothing beneath it. The decision had been a conscious one, a tiny, brazen act of trust and burgeoning desire.
He stepped inside, and the cottage seemed to shrink around his presence. The low, stone-ceilinged room, usually her cozy sanctuary, suddenly felt intimate, a world for two. He set the basket and wine on the wooden table, and his eyes fell upon Mačka, who was observing him from her perch on the windowsill with feline suspicion.
"She does not trust me," Juraj observed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"She's a good judge of character," Ina replied, her own voice teasing. "She knows you're… unusual."
He turned to her, his expression softening. "And you, Ina? Do you trust me?"
The question hung in the air, serious and heavy. She looked into his eyes, those deep, fertile pools that held storms and sunsets and the secrets of the soil, and she knew her answer was the most important truth she would ever speak.
"Yes," she whispered. "I do."
A slow, radiant smile broke across his face, a smile that could make seeds germinate in frozen ground. He reached for her then, not with haste, but with a deliberate, aching slowness. His hands came to rest on her waist, his thumbs stroking the gentle curve of her hips through the soft cotton of her blouse. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that shot straight to her core.
"Good," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "That is everything."
He leaned down, and his lips met hers.
This kiss was different from the one in the cove. That had been a surrender to wonder, a seal on a newfound intimacy. This was a claiming. It was deeper, more confident, fueled by days of pent-up longing and the quiet trust they had built. His mouth moved over hers with a skill that was both innate and devastating, coaxing, demanding, worshiping. She melted against him, her hands coming up to clutch at the solid strength of his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the dark, silken hair at the nape of his neck.
He tasted of the wild rosemary that grew on the hills and of the rich, dark wine he had brought. It was the taste of the Dalmatian earth itself, and she drank it in, a thirst she hadn't known she possessed being quenched at its source.
His hands began to move, sliding from her waist up her back, pulling her closer until not a sliver of light could pass between them. She could feel the hard, unyielding planes of his chest and abdomen against her softness, a contrast that made her dizzy with desire. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her curls, tilting her face to deepen the kiss even further.
He was breathing heavily, his control a fraying thread. She could feel the tremble in his own hands, the rigid tension in his body as he held himself back. He was a force of nature, and he was leashing himself for her. The knowledge was a powerful aphrodisiac.
When his hand slid from her back around to her side, his fingers splaying over her ribs, she thought her knees would buckle. And then, his touch drifted higher, his palm skimming the side of her breast through the blouse. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her, swallowed by his kiss.
He stilled for a fraction of a second, a silent question. She answered by arching into his touch, a wordless plea.
His decision to stop was a battle she could feel him fighting. His body was rigid with the effort. But his curiosity, his hunger, his godly nature that thrived on sensation and life, won a small, crucial skirmish.
His hand moved again, his fingers slowly, so slowly, creeping underneath the hem of her soft cotton blouse.
The feel of his warm, rough palm on the bare skin of her waist was a revelation. It was like being touched by sunlight given form. She gasped, breaking the kiss, her head falling back. Her eyes were closed, her entire being focused on that single point of contact.
He took the opportunity to lower his head, his lips finding the sensitive column of her throat. He kissed the frantic pulse there, his tongue tasting her skin, his teeth grazing lightly in a way that made her whimper and clutch him tighter. His breath was hot against her damp skin, a counterpoint to the cool evening air.
All the while, his hand was moving, a slow, deliberate exploration. His fingers splayed, his thumb stroking the delicate arch of her ribcage. He was learning the geography of her, the texture of her skin, the way she shivered under his touch. He moved higher, the tips of his fingers brushing the sensitive underside of her breast.
And then he stopped. His whole body went rigid again. His fingers, which had been playing so tenderly with her bare skin, stilled. He had expected the barrier of a bra, the final frontier of her modesty. He had been prepared to honor it, to let that be the line he would not cross tonight.
But there was nothing. Just the infinitely soft, warm, bare skin of her breast, rising and falling with her ragged breaths.
A low, guttural sound ripped from his throat, a noise of pure, primal shock and want. It was the sound of the earth cracking open to release a spring. His control, which had been a taut wire, now vibrated with a dangerous, thrilling tension.
"Ina," he groaned against her neck, his voice ragged, torn. "Draga moja… you are not making this easy."
His fingers twitched against her bare flesh, a barely suppressed urge to close the final distance, to cup the full, heavy weight of her. The heat of his hand was a brand, the anticipation an agony. She could feel the battle raging within him—the god of passion warring with the man who had promised to cherish her sacred trust.
He was trying to stop. For her. Because of her. But the feel of her, so soft, so trusting, so utterly open to him, was a siren's call his ancient soul was powerless to resist completely.
His decision to pull away was now infinitely more difficult. It was a Herculean effort, a test of will against the most fundamental part of his nature. He remained there for a long, suspended moment, his face buried in her neck, his breathing harsh, his hand trembling against her bare skin, his fingers a hair's breadth from the peak of her breast.
In that charged, breathless silence, filled only with the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant cry of a gull, Ina understood the true depth of his respect for her. He was a being of immense power, of raw, untamed desire, and he was stopping himself for her. The knowledge flooded her with a warmth that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with love.
He was not just falling in love with her. He was worshipping her. And in that sacred, trembling space between his touch and his restraint, she fell completely, irrevocably in love with him.
The air in the cottage after that night was forever changed. It was no longer just the scent of lavender and stone; it was now imbued with the memory of wine, of roasted herbs, and the intoxicating fragrance of their shared, thwarted passion. A new, electric charge hummed in the space between them, a silent acknowledgment of the line they had approached and Juraj, with a willpower that seemed to shake the very foundations of his being, had not crossed.
Their meetings in the days that followed were a study in exquisite torture. A new, raw intensity crackled between them. A simple brush of hands as they walked through the field sent sparks dancing up their arms. A lingering gaze across the shop counter felt as intimate as a caress. Their kisses, when they stole them in the shadowed alleyways of the old town or at her cottage door, were no longer gentle explorations but hungry, desperate things, full of a promise that was both a torment and a delight.
Juraj was a study in controlled chaos. His touch was always initiated with a gentle reverence, but Ina could feel the leashed storm beneath his skin. His hands would frame her face with unbearable tenderness, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, but she could feel the tremor in his fingers. His kisses would start soft, but would quickly deepen into something consuming, as if he were trying to drink the very essence of her from her lips. And always, always, he was the one to pull away. He would break the kiss with a ragged gasp, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire body rigid with the effort of stopping.
"We must… slow down," he would murmur, his voice thick, the words sounding like they were torn from him.
"Why?" Ina once dared to ask, her own body thrumming with a restless, unfamiliar ache.
He opened his eyes then, and the look in them was a wild, ancient thing. "Because, ljubavi moja, if I do not, I will not stop. And you… you are a temple. I will not be a vandal at your altar."
The metaphor thrilled and terrified her. A temple. An altar. It spoke of a sacredness she felt unworthy of, but that he, a god, seemed to bestow upon her without question. His restraint was the greatest proof of his devotion, a daily sacrifice he made upon the altar of her innocence.
But innocence, she was discovering, was a fluid thing. It was not ignorance, but a state of being waiting for its catalyst. And Juraj, the god of spring and rebirth, was the ultimate catalyst. Her body, under his worshipful gaze and torturously chaste touches, was awakening. The shy, uncertain woman was being coaxed into bloom by the sun of his attention. The ache between her legs, the heavy, sensitive feeling in her breasts, the way her skin craved the roughness of his palms—it was all a new, bewildering, and powerful language her body was learning to speak.
It was on a quiet, overcast afternoon a few days later that the language became a shout.
A soft, grey drizzle had begun to fall, pattering against the leaves of the lavender outside and streaking the cottage windows. The world was hushed, wrapped in a cool, damp blanket. They were inside, the fire crackling in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room. Mačka was a contented, purring loaf on the rug before it.
They were on Ina's small, worn sofa, nestled together under a thick, woolen blanket. They had been talking, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, listening to the rain. It was a scene of such profound domestic peace that it made Ina's heart ache with a happiness so sharp it was almost painful.
She shifted, tilting her face up to his to make a comment about the weather, and found his eyes already on her, dark and soft and full of a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
Without a word, he leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss. It was not hungry or desperate this time. It was deep, and slow, and profoundly sweet. It was a kiss of belonging. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened for him willingly, a sigh escaping her as he explored her mouth with a lazy, thorough possession that made her toes curl.
His hand, which had been resting on her shoulder, began to move. It slid down her arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, then came to rest on her hip. Through the soft fabric of her simple cotton dress, she could feel the heat of his palm like a brand. He squeezed gently, his fingers kneading the soft flesh, and she melted further into him, her own hands coming up to thread through his hair, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened, the sweetness slowly simmering into something hotter, more urgent. The world outside—the rain, the lavender, the sleeping cat—faded into insignificance. There was only the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the solid, wonderful weight of him pressing her back into the cushions of the sofa.
His hand on her hip began to move again, sliding from her hip down the outside of her thigh. The cotton of her dress whispered against her skin as his hand traveled. He reached her knee, then his fingers curled, his palm sliding back up, but this time, he moved to the inside of her thigh.
Ina froze.
This was new. His touches had always been on her waist, her back, her arms. This was a deliberate, intimate invasion of a territory that was strictly, privately hers. A territory that had, in the quiet of her own bed these past nights, begun to ache for a touch she could not give it herself.
Her mind screamed a dozen warnings. This is too fast. This is too much. But her body, her traitorous, awakening body, had a will of its own.
His hand was moving with an agonizing slowness, his palm flat against her inner thigh, inching higher. The rough texture of his skin against the tender, untouched flesh was a sensation so electrifying it stole the breath from her lungs. She gasped against his mouth, a sharp, startled sound.
And in that moment of shock, of primal surprise, her body made a decision without consulting her mind.
Involuntarily, a reflex as ancient as life itself, her legs parted for him.
It was not a wide, wanton gesture. It was a subtle, yielding surrender, a quiet granting of access. But in the charged, silent language of their embrace, it was as loud as a shout.
Juraj groaned. It was a sound torn from the very depths of him, low, guttural, and raw with a need so profound it vibrated through her own body. The kiss broke. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own wide and dark, the pupils blown with a storm of desire. He was searching for permission, for a sign of fear, for any reason to stop.
And Ina, her heart hammering against her ribs like a wild bird, gave him the only answer she could. She held his gaze, her sea-blue eyes clouded with confusion and a desperate, dawning want, and she did not close her legs.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
His hand continued its slow, relentless journey upward. The world narrowed to the path of his touch. She could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her plain, cotton panties, a searing brand moving inexorably towards the very core of her. Her body was trembling, a fine, constant shiver that started deep in her soul and radiated outwards.
And then he was there.
His palm cupped her, his fingers splaying over the damp, thin cotton that was the only barrier between his skin and hers.
The gasp that left her this time was a sob. It was a sound of shock, of vulnerability, of a pleasure so sharp and unexpected it bordered on pain. She was wet. Soaking. The evidence of her desire was a hot, slick stain against the fabric, and now, against his palm. She was mortified. She was exhilarated.
Juraj stilled, his entire body tensing as if struck by lightning. He could feel it. The heat. The dampness. The undeniable, physical proof of her arousal, a direct response to him. For the god of fertility and passion, this was the most potent, the most sacred offering he could ever receive. It was the earth opening to the rain, the flower turning its face to the sun.
"Ina," he breathed, her name a prayer, a curse, a benediction.
His fingers flexed, applying the gentlest of pressures. A fresh wave of sensation, dizzying and deep, washed over her. A low, helpless moan escaped her lips, and her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against his hand, seeking more of that incredible friction.
That small, instinctive movement shattered the last of his control.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, and he buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. His fingers began to move, not pulling the fabric aside, but tracing slow, deliberate circles over it. The wet cotton, now a slick, intimate conduit, transmitted every nuance of his touch directly to her hypersensitive flesh.
It was madness. It was agony. It was ecstasy.
The rough pad of his middle finger found the small, hard nub of her clitoris, swollen and aching for attention. He circled it, once, twice, with a torturous slowness that made her cry out, her back arching off the sofa cushions. Her hands, which had been tangled in his hair, now clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into the linen of his shirt.
"Juraj… please…" she begged, not knowing what she was begging for, only that she needed… more.
He understood. His circling became more focused, more insistent. The pleasure was a tight, bright coil winding deep in her belly, a pressure building with every slow, deliberate circle of his finger. She was panting now, little gasping breaths, her eyes squeezed shut, her entire world reduced to the exquisite friction of his hand against the soaked fabric between her legs. The room was spinning, the sound of the rain and the crackling fire merging into a distant roar in her ears.
He was whispering to her in that ancient, guttural tongue, words she didn't understand but whose meaning was clear. They were words of worship, of possession, of raw, unvarnished need. He was the storm and she was the earth, and he was watering her, making her bloom.
The coil inside her tightened, tightened, until she felt she would break. Her body was tensing, every muscle drawn taut as a bowstring. She was on the edge of a precipice, staring into a void of sensation she had never known existed.
"Let go, ljubavi moja," he growled against her ear, his voice thick with his own desperate want. "Let go for me. Bloom for me."
And with a final, perfect circle of his finger, she did.
The world exploded into a supernova of pure, white-hot pleasure. A broken cry was torn from her throat as the coil snapped, sending waves of convulsive, shattering ecstasy crashing through her. Her body arched violently, her hips pressing hard against his hand as she rode the shockwaves, each one more intense than the last, shaking her to her very foundation. It was a cataclysm, a rebirth, a death and a resurrection all in one.
Slowly, gradually, the waves subsided, leaving her boneless, trembling, and utterly spent. She lay limply against the cushions, her breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps, her body humming with the aftershocks. She felt… unmade. And remade.
Juraj slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand. He looked down at her, his own breathing harsh, his face a mask of awe and a barely restrained, primal triumph. He brought his fingers, the ones that had just orchestrated her undoing, to his lips and kissed them, his eyes holding hers the entire time. It was the most possessive, the most erotic thing she had ever seen.
He then gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest as she trembled. He pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.
"You see?" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "You are life itself. And that… that was a spring only you could create."
Ina could not speak. She could only cling to him, her mind reeling, her body singing a hymn of gratitude and shock. He had not taken her virginity. He had not even undressed her. But he had plucked the very essence of her passion from her, had shown her a universe of sensation contained within her own body.
The thin cotton of her panties was still damp, a cooling, intimate reminder of the tempest that had just passed. She was still a virgin in the technical, physical sense. But as she lay in the arms of the god who had just ushered her through her first shattering climax, Ina Marović knew, with a certainty that shook her soul, that her innocence, in every way that truly mattered, was gone. And in its place was a woman, awakened, desired, and passionately, irrevocably in love.