“Husband,” I say in warning.
His eyes crinkle with suppressed mirth. “Wife.”
“Do you want to die?”
“I thought we’ve already discussed this.” Leaning forward, he brushes his nose against the shell of my ear, eliciting a shaky exhalation from me. “I cannot die.”
My fingers find his nipple and twist—hard.
He recoils with a curse, but I hang on, tightening my grip. “Do not underestimate an aroused woman.”
His laughter erupts like the most beautiful song. “Never.” The emotion in his eyes, plain as the brightest of days, makes my heartlurch uncomfortably. “Tell me what you want, Wren. No more secrets. No more lies.”
Am I doing this?
I’m doing this.
“I want your fingers inside me,” I say, a hitch in my breath, “as deep as they can go. Then I want you to fuck me with them. Hard.”
Hunger ripples across his expression. “Filthy mouth,” he murmurs, lowering his head to nip at my lips. Fingers digging into my backside, he moves me against his thigh—faster, harder, punishing, pressure edged in pain. I grind mindlessly against his leg, no better than a dog in heat. The pleasure blooms bright within me, and I chase that feeling as far as I can.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes,” I pant. “Don’t stop.”
As I ride his leg, he fists the dark strands of my hair, then tilts my head to the side. I am a moth, pinned against a white light. The Frost King grazes his teeth across my nape. He soothes the sting with dabs of his tongue, mouthing the area into acute sensitivity until I begin to fight his hold.
At the next hard suck, he pushes up against my core. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I whimper, trying to increase the friction. The ache in my pelvis builds.
“Hold on to me,” he whispers, and begins loosening the laces of my tunic.
Is this his intention? To draw out my desire until I’m but ragged threads? The king strokes my skin with an expression bordering on awe. He cups my breasts beneath the band of fabric holding them in place, squeezing the aching flesh. Then he removes my tunic, pulling down the heavy banding. My nipples peak in the cold air.
I have to fight the urge to rub my face against him like a cat. His scent is unbelievably potent. Snow and cedar, salt and earth, sweat and musk and man. I swipe my tongue along the sweat gleaming on his neck. Boreas groans and buries his face in my hair, trembling.
Power. It exists here, in the ability to send a god to his knees in the midst of battle, and I have taken it for myself.
Sweet, biting kisses dampen my jaw. He mouths the curve where my neck and shoulder meet before moving lower, across the swell of my breast, leaving a trail of dampness in his wake. “You are—” He sucks a nipple into his mouth, playing with the sensitive peak, flicking his tongue against it.
“Less talking,” I pant, “more of—” He shifts his thigh harder against my throbbing core, and a mewling sound escapes me. “That. More of that.”
His cock strains against my abdomen. With every brush against his arousal, he grunts, the sound traveling through me as he crushes his lips to mine, unleashing an aggressive, open-mouthed assault that plucks at my every nerve ending. My curiosity piqued, I trail my fingers along the length of him, root to tip.
He goes still. Again, I touch him lightly, more suggestion than anything else. Boreas pulls back, watching me as though I’ve been sent to kill him. Little does he know, I have.
Here is my truth: I want to bury into his heat, I want to crawl inside his skin, I want his breath to become mine, and all the air he stole from me, I want to give it back. I want to destroy Boreas the way he has destroyed me: slowly, one toppled stone at a time.
Abruptly, he catches my hand in his, drawing it away from his erection. “Patience,” he murmurs, and then his hand dives into the front of my trousers.
He probes the soft skin of my inner thighs, and my blood leaps to meet his touch. My legs begin to shake as he shifts higher, the heel of his palm brushing against my drenched flesh in a touch that feels so good my eyes roll into the back of my head. I have to move, have to grind against his hand until the ache shatters, but—
Patience.
I want to please him.
Blunt fingers brush against my short curls. I widen my stance to give him better access, and he nods in wordless approval.
His touch returns to my thigh, drifting up to the juncture. Heat slicks the skin there, and his fingers slide through it, gathering moisture. His blue eyes smolder. Oh, mercy, I can’t breathe. Gods help me, but I want this man. And if that means I’m going to hell, so be it.
