“Platonic bonds.Friends,” she says, and she tries so hard to mean it. She raises a hand, points a finger at my chest, then hers. “This—this isn’t very friendly, Julien.”
“Neither is knowing the sounds you make when you come.”
Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens—then shuts.
She doesn’t speak but her darkness does. It trails all over me, wrapping around my arms, sliding over my chest, whispering sweet promises.
“Neither is the way your darkness is touching me.” My voice is a deep rasp as I fight against the pleasure her tendrils bring.
My head drops, chin upon my chest as I try to keep focused. But when her wisps slide lower, underneath my clothing, slipping in between the dips of my stomach muscles and continuing… I moan.
Everything amplifies.
The Dark Realm is thrust upon us.
I peer up, and Jasmine’s gaze is consumed by the dark as she stares at me.
How is she ours? How is this goddess our bond?
I should ease her out of the realm. I should.
But I don’t want to.
“My knees or above you?”
“What?” Her voice is tinged by the dark, and now flickers of red fight to fracture her blackened gaze.
“Which do you prefer?” I ask in a low lull.
My neck strains when I feel another coil trace up my spine, but I push through, eyes locking with hers.
“Both.” The word is a whisper, and she never looks away.
Her hand raises, fingers trailing something along my chest. I peer down, see the thin chain of silver often hidden beneath my clothes.
She grips it—tugs me closer. I just stop myself from falling onto her, my hands planted on the counter beside her hips, foreheads touching.
“I want this,” she says, commands, curling the chain around her fingers as she reels me in—inch-by-inch.
“What else, mon âme?”
“What does that mean?” she whispers, her voice drenched in darkness, her eyes darting between mine in flickers of black and red. “Mon âme.”
My gaze darkens, my beast surges to life. Hearing her say those words, in that voice, with those eyes…
I wrap one hand around her throat, collaring it in my grasp, admiring for a moment how beautiful her pale skin looks beneath my dark fingers.
“My soul.” Our noses brush. I wet my lips. “Every part of me is yours. My soul, my body, my—”
“Your blood.” More figments of red fracture the darkness of her gaze. Her sudden statement only makes my beast more feral.
I nod eagerly, noses brushing, lips unbearably close.
“My blood…” she murmurs, and I freeze. “Or my lips?”
I.
How can I—
