He still holds my chin, leaning closer, his warm breath brushing my lips, making my toes curl.
He chuckles, low and dark. “Should we take advantage of less intelligent species?”
He steps back, his sly grin as wild as it gets, and I shake my head, trying to flick away the need he’s stirred in me.
“They don’t really know what they’re offering,” he murmurs, a teasing glint in his eyes as he studies my reaction.
I shake my head, forcing my focus on the part of my brain that hasn’t been completely fried by his shameless flirting.
“My grandpa thought the same,” I admit, “which Grams always countered with, ‘They feed on their co-dependentspecies; it’s only fair they fall prey to someone else.’ It spiralled into a whole discussion about being a better Fae. Trisha and I escaped the room as fast as we could. We were fed up with the topic.”
“They’re disgusting,” he says, wrinkling his forehead. Then his eyes glint. “And that monologue of yours… that’s excellent foreplay.”
“Don’t joke, the matter is serious.” I straighten, leaning forward slightly. “Given how they govern themselves, we will soon be forced to breed them in Rhodria, in case they self-destruct. What will we drink then? Nymph’s oil? Deity’s nectar? Bleh.”
Aidon executes a perfect eye roll. “You are so spoiled.”
“It comes with the title,” I smile, before downing the liquid.
“I guess it does.”
I expect him to scold me, comment on my morals, but he grabs a bottle from the nearest servant and takes a generous sip.
I watch his throat work it, then study his face, not wanting to miss the moment the bliss hits him.
Here it is. His beautiful features relax, and a gorgeous smile visits his face.
I grin in response.
The high from the Fae wine is so good, you crave it the moment it’s wearing off.
Strongly addictive, a never-ending cycle.
My senses sharpen, the hairs on my body rising to attention as I focus on the erotic sound of flutes. Their delicate notes strike something deep in my soul.
Stimulate it.
I look at the Fae around me, and my excitement rises with each sway of hips. I hope I look at least half as sensual when I dance.
“I hope that too,” he teases.
“If you want that moment of my time, you need to say it regardless of how my performance goes,” I stick my tongue out.
My fucking tongue. Like I’m a teen again, but I haven’t been one for at least a decade. Most Fae reach full maturity by eighty-five.
He leans closer. A half-smile dancing on his lips. “I find it endearing.” His close presence brushes me like delicate feathers, tickling in the place where I wish he could reach.
Fucking Fae wine.
I have no time to explore that idea, because masculine hands lay on my hips, swaying them sensually. Aidon stiffens, but before I can ask, I let myself get lost in the sensation. I relax my body. The hands teasingly wander my skin. It doesn’t matter whose; they’re close, and I welcome it.
Another song, another beautiful male approaches me. An alluring smile invites me in and I lay my hands on his neck, making myself comfortable in his muscular arms.
Then the stranger spins me around, and I land directly on a Male Deity before me.
“What a surprise.” He catches me nimbly, and I gawk. His face could have been sculpted by the Great Architect himself. Silver eyes glow like the moon, framed by dark waves pulled back into a short, rugged ponytail that just brushes his shoulders. He wears a sleeveless leather standard uniform, his wings neatly tucked in behind him, and intricate magical tattoos wind over his arms, pulsating faintly with power—a conduit for the vikan magic of his heritage. I’ve never found the same allure as Trisha in Dragthralls, but this male is a feast to behold.
I am awestruck. Drooling. With a capital D.
