Every stroke of his tongue pulls another sound from me, and every sound makes him hungrier. One hand slides from my thigh to my hip, anchoring me as he works me harder, faster. The other moves lower, his fingers slipping in effortlessly.
I’m hot and cold.
Restrained and free.
Dead and alive.
My head drops forward, breath fogging the wall. “God—Talon—”
“Focus, Skye,” he orders. “Make the most of it.”
I force myself to meet his gaze again, and then he does something—fingers curling, tongue pressing just right—that turns my knees to liquid.
If this is him trying to convince me to want to stay at his side, he’s doing it just right.
The problem, though?
It’s not evenwhathe’s doing to me. It’showhe’s doing it.
I’m not an object.
I’m not athing.
I’m not something to be owned.
Every touch of his says it. He’s begging. Asking me to give myself to him. Convincing me. Caressing me. Showing me he won’t waste me if I decide to give myself over to him.
The thought jolts through me just before his tongue pushes me over again. The orgasm hits sharper, faster than the first. It’s ripping my breath away, leaving me clinging to the brick for the life of me.
He groans against me, low and satisfied, like my pleasure is his personal reward. Then his mouth slows, easing me down from the shuddering high.
When he finally stands and I turn to look at him, his mouth is slick and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. Not just lust-dark—storm-dark. Like he’s holding back a thousand things he can’t let out yet.
He unbuckles his belt, and I realize the pinnacle of his persuasion is still to come.
“Stay,” Talon whispers. Just one word.
I should tell him I can’t. That there are wraiths, and Death, and a hundred reasons why this ends with me gone.
But my voice doesn’t work.
So I just kiss him. Hard. Deep. Like maybe if I pour enough into it, he’ll understand.
“I want to,” I whisper into his mouth. It might just be the most dangerous thing I’ve admitted in a long, long time.
His breath catches. He cups the back of my neck and kisses me like he can drag that want out and make it permanent.
His belt falls open with a snap.
“You do?” He presses forward, pinning me tighter to the brick. “This is not a lie, right?”
“It’s not. I really want to.”
He hesitates, just a beat, before his mouth curves in that reckless grin I know too well.
“Then what did I just tell you, Little Grim?” he murmurs. “I’ll tear the world apart to make it happen. As long as you want it.”
And then he picks me up.
