I don’t even have to answer. He already knows.
His smirk deepens, and there’s something dark flickering behind his eyes—something that wasn’t there before. Curiosity? Satisfaction? Hunger?
I don't know what it is, but I need more of it.
His knuckles ghost along my jaw. The sensation sinks in, spreading heat through me inch by inch. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
A sharp inhale—his.
And just like that, I know. I am in so much fucking trouble. There’s no way I can stop now.
His fingers still for a heartbeat, then trace the shape of me—down the column of my throat, across my collarbone, to the bare curve of my shoulder.
“You’re warm everywhere,” he murmurs, softer now, almost reverent. “Even here.”
He presses his palm against my chest. Right over where my heart used to beat. Right above my nipple.
I make a noise. A choked, desperate sound that betrays everything.
His lips part slightly. His eyes drop to my mouth.
“I could make you feel more,” he says.
A challenge. A promise.
And I—
“Enough,” Cassian grunts somewhere in the background.
It should stop me. It should stop Talon. And yet…
“Shh, it's okay,” Talon whispers. To me. His voice is pure sin wrapped in silk, dipped in whiskey, coated in honey. He speaks to me like he’s never been told “no” in his entire goddamn life.
“But—”
“Don't worry about him, Little Grim.”
It's not Cassian I worry about. It's not Nathaniel either, who is watching the two of us with such intensity, his stare burns. It's the fact that suddenly, I don't want this to ever end. Ever.
His hand slides lower. Barely. Just enough that I feel the drag of his palm down my sternum, the lightest press of his fingertips tracing the curve of my ribcage. His other hand moves up, brushing along the inside of my wrist.
It's addictive.
A shudder rolls through me, slow and aching.
“You’re shaking,” Talon murmurs. “Why, Little Grim?”
I don’t answer. Ican’tanswer.
Because his hand is dipping lower. Because his fingers trace the barest path down my stomach. And that heat he told me I had? I think I'm starting to feel it. Right between my legs, I…
I arch into it. Into him.
“Talon,” Cassian warns again, rougher this time.
And I get him. I really do. But I also really want to know if Talon slides his hand just a little bit lower—just to graze my clit—will I feel more? I can feel my eyelashes fluttering, my mouth opening, my breath hitching.
Talon watches me like I’m a meal, a prayer, a dessert he can’t wait to sink his teeth into. Like we’re closed off in a little bubble where the rest of the world—dead or alive—doesn’t fucking matter.
