“From the whole world, miss. You’re all mine now.”
He walks over to the dial and turns the music louder.
“Cassian’s gonna be angry,” I murmur.
“Cassian’s not here, baby,” he replies.
He starts to dance with that loose, dangerous confidence he carries into everything. Every movement feels just right.
And holy hell, he knows how to move.
His hands find my hips, then leave. He takes a step back, watching me. Then he beckons. I shake my head, pretending I won’t come. Two seconds later, he pulls me in anyway.
The music hums through the air. My pulse answers it.
“Said the blood doesn’t disgust you,” he purrs. “Walk your talk, Skye.”
He spins me. The towel flares out, teasing disaster. It flirts with catastrophe, clings, then starts to slip.
His gaze drops, following the movement. Then his eyes snap back to mine. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing hard, jaw tense, eyes dark.
The towel gives another threatening shift.
He catches it before it falls. His fingers brush my thigh.
“Hold on,” he says quietly.
Then he unbuckles his leather belt.
I cock a brow. “What do you want to do with that?”
I know a thing or two we’ve already done with a belt.
“Arms up,” he instructs.
I obey.
Talon loops the belt around my waist, securing the towel with a slow pull that presses the fabric tight against my ribs. He tugs once more, testing the hold, then smooths a hand down my side.
“Not what I thought you would do, but okay,” I laugh.
He gives me a look that’s pure sin. “Sorry, babe, but I’m not getting inside you while I’m still covered in your ex-husband’s blood. Might not bother me, but it’s too filthy for your pretty pussy.”
“Fair enough.”
His mouth tilts, that familiar spark cutting through the wreckage between us. Then, as if to break the tension, he offers a mock bow. I curtsy back.
He steals me properly this time. One hand finds the small of my back, the other catches my fingers.
A slow step. A sudden whip. A slide, a snap. He’s grinning, eyes half-lidded, and for a heartbeat I forget there’s a world beyond us at all.
“Follow,” he murmurs.
“I don’t dofollow,” I say, but my body already does. He turns me once, twice. The towel flares again and again. My laugh spillsout, bright and ungoverned, and his answering hum is hungry enough to burn.
“You were so damn sexy down there,” he says, voice rough with it. “You know that?”
He proves it with movement. A hand at my waist—he pulls; I pivot. He pushes; I lean, body bending in ways a towel and a belt shouldn’t allow, but his grip keeps me steady. I catch my breath only to lose it again as he snaps me back upright, spine against his chest, heat skittering under my skin like sparks under paper.
