Holy Goddess of the Dark.
I want him to. With his hands, his teeth, his shadows, I don’t really care.
But I know how to get it.
“Maybe…” I make my voice quiet, soft. I even struggle to take my next breath. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” I murmur, allbreathy and nervous, like I really am a scared little angel. “We’re enemies after all—”
Rip.
His shadows clutch either side of the bodice, now torn in half, fluttering to the bed beside my waist.
My hands instinctively move to cover myself out of habit, and it fits the game we’re playing so well.
Cold shadows wrap around my wrists, pulling them away from my chest and guiding them upward. I’m pushed down by another, spine flat against the mattress, arms drawn above my head—stretched until they’re fully extended.
Another shadow curls around my waist, yanking me so I’m at the very edge of the bed, legs parted, hanging off. My toes barely graze the floor.
Kane doesn’t say or do anything. Doesn’t even touch me. He just stays on his knees as his shadows lay me out on the bed beneath him, staring down at me on his knees.
At what’s left of the dress, and what it’s revealed.
The dress was a disguise, just like my act, and if that wasn’t clear before, the black, skimpy lace underwear makes it undeniable.
He leans over, one hand beside my head on the bed, body poised above me, our chests almost touching.
“For me?” he asks, fingertips brushing the laced edge of my bra.
His gaze sweeps up to mine as his fingers trail over the curve of my breast, up the line of my throat, along the edge of my jaw, then cupping my cheek.
He leans in, lips grazing mine, just so—tauntingly. But then… nothing.
He holds himself there, above me. Dark gaze on mine, heated, but steady. Waiting.
For what?
I blink at him, heart thudding, mind hazy with the feel of him, the closeness, the heat curling low in my stomach. Why isn’t he—?
His gaze drops down, to my chest. The bra. His question.
I look at him, and immediately nod.
He closes the distance with a low groan.
This is nothing like our first kiss. This is harder, certain, claiming.
Like the thought of me picking out these things for him, taking my time, thinking about him… the dress, the underwear, the style of my hair, even the colour of my shoes—broke whatever hold he had left.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I twitch my fingers, desperate to be free of his shadow—desperate to touch him.
He must sense it, because in one sharp movement I’m jolted upright. His shadows drag me into a sitting position, arms still stretched high, clenched fists pointed to the ceiling.
My balance is unsteady, until one of his hands slides into the back of my hair, and the other grips my hip. He yanks me forwards, dragging me to the very edge again, but now pressing into his hard body.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my mouth, giving me no air, no time.“Mineto touch.Mineto play with.Mine.”
His lips drag lower, down to my throat. I’m gasping—for air, for him—still tugging at the restraints that do not give. He doesn’t loosen them, dragging his mouth back up to my ear.
“You can wait.” His voice is so low, but there’s a flicker of amusement. Because he enjoys seeing me struggle, and he’s daring me to keep trying.
