“Balor, please…” She tossed and turned under the curtain of leaves she slept beneath, her soft whimpers stirring my cock.
Dark, devious thoughts danced in my mind, knowing she was dreaming of me.
I’d guessed—hoped, even—that it was me plaguing the nightmares I knew she had most nights. On one evening, her hand had even crept between her thighs and she’d lazily stroked herself while she writhed in her sleep.
This was the first night she’d said my name.
My name in her mouth was like that of a prayer on the lips of a damned priest. Powerful and desperate.
Fire and fecking fury.
My need for her was tearing me apart from the inside out. I needed her like the breath in my lungs and the fire in my heart.
We’d struck a deal. I wouldn’t claim her until she gave up her search for the four-leaf clover.
But I never said I wouldn’t touch her. Monster of my word that I was, I was still a fae creature, after all. It was in my blood to find loopholes in the deals I struck with mortals.
I stood up, shrugging my duster jacket off, and left it on the pillar along with my eye patch. The magic leaking from the crack in my gem lit up the night, casting everything in a warm amber glow.
I strode across the bed of clovers, knelt beside Maeve and swept the leaves out of the way.
She was a vision, wrapped in the blaze of my flame light. She still wore the purple sweater with the logo of the antique shop on her breast, the clover with the eye in its center. Maeve loved the sweater. Over the last handful of days, she’d taken care to keep it clean. She’d drawn the clover herself, she’d told me when she ordered them to carry in the shop. Back when she thought I was nothing more than a legend.
She’d been so excited.
Guilt stabbed at me.
“Balor…Please.”
I bit back a groan as her pathetic little mewl slipped from her lips. Just like that, the urge to kiss her was greater than my guilt. Bowing my spine, I gently—more gently than I thought myself capable—brushed my mouth to hers.
At the contact, I was treated with a moan that started in her throat and ended in mine.
“I’m here, wee one. Tell me what ya need,” I whispered against her mouth.
“I need… I need…” Her whispered words were rife with need and frustration.
I positioned myself so that I was kneeling over her and cupped her calf, slowly gliding my fingers up the back of her leg. Her flesh began to heat, and a fever-red blush spread across her body. I wasn’t the only one fighting the magnetism of our bond.
“Yes. Use your words. Tell me what ya need.” I found it easier to be softer with her when she wasn’t awake. When she was awake, she was a torrent of fire. Defiant and full of hate.
When she was like this, she was a little doll beneath me. So pliant and easy to break. It wasn’t in my nature, but I had to be gentle. If I broke her, what else would there be for me?
This wee woman was my only reason left for living.
“I—It hurts…” she mumbled, her face contorting with anguish. “Please.”
She wanted me to make her pain go away. Who was I to deny my mate?
While I couldn’t burn her skin because of our bond, I could burn her clothes.
I pulled her sweater off first, careful not to singe it—knowing how much she loved it—and placed it under head like a pillow. I burned the rest. Her skirt fizzled away in a puff of ash and cinder, followed by her bra.
When I’d finished burning off her clothes, she was left in nothing but socks embroidered with shamrocks. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Poor girl. Though, she did look cute, laying there naked in nothing but her holiday socks.
For several minutes I sat there, simply admiring her.
Everything about Maeve McCrum mesmerized me.
