Nathaniel pinches my nipple again—harder this time. Just enough to sting, just enough to make me gasp.
“You feel that?” His voice is low, rough, and furious with relief.
Andonly nowdo I realize:
We arestill at the crash site.
The car is upside down. Upside-fucking-down. A few feet away, smoke curls from its shattered remains like some kind of post-apocalyptic set piece. The night is still thick, still ominous, as if the wraith might respawn at any given moment.
Nathaniel is bleeding. From his temple. Blood streaks down the side of his face like war paint.
Talon? Bruised to hell.
Cassian? Absolutely drenched in blood, his chest on display, a fat scar where his injury was. He looks like he belongs in a blood-soaked Renaissance painting, but does he care? No. None of them do.
They are waiting. Staring at me.
They want an answer.
So I give them one.
“Yes,” I breathe, a tremor running through me. “Do you?”
Nathaniel doesn’t answer. He just watches me, unreadable, and then—
He kisses me. Hard. Deep. Possessive. His tongue slides against mine like he’s trying to brand me, make sure I know I’m alive.
But…
He didn’t answer.
I pull back, breathless, unsettled.
“Do you?” I ask again.
Silence.
Nathaniel just stares.
He still doesn’t reply.
Neither Talon nor Cassian react.
A sick sort of realization slithers up my spine
What had Talon called my touch before? Warm mist.
Oh. Oh no. Is that all I am to them right now? Some fleeting, whispery, half-there hallucination? A tragic little puff of steam dissipating before they can even cup their hands around it?
Because I’m drowning in them—in heat, in sensation, in the weight of their bodies pressing against mine. But are they drowning in me? Or am I just some erotic mirage, an apparition of lust, a moaning smoke they can’t really feel?
Does it even matter?
Because Talon’s fingers are still in my pussy. He might not feel me like he would a living, breathing woman, but I feel him just fine. I feel the heel of his palm against my pubic bone, the wetness slicking my thighs, the way his fingers move like they were personally trained in the forbidden scrolls of divine pleasure. I feel myself strung up and teetering on the edge, chasing a release I haven’t had in years.
I might regret this later.
Might.
