His mouth twitches, his eyes sparkling with the light of dying stars. I fought this for so long, but I can fight no longer. The heart wants what the heart wants.
Boreas licks a pathway to my ear, sucks the lobe into his mouth. “It will be well worth the wait,” he whispers. “I assure you.”
“You will not abandon me, should one of your guards come knocking?”
He pulls back, his expression carefully blank. A low blow, yes, but I’m not interested in starting something unless we both see it through.
Cupping my face, he hooks his thumb beneath my jaw, tilting it upward so I’m forced to meet his apologetic gaze. “I regretted leaving you that night, and have regretted it every night since. My hand is a poor substitute.”
A dark thrill runs through me at the thought, and I lean into him. “You touched yourself thinking of me? How often?”
“That,” he says, “is none of your concern.”
I’m now imagining a half-naked Boreas in bed, in the bath, fisting himself until he spills. “But—”
He digs his teeth into my neck, dragging a moan from me. The burn whips down my spine, and I tilt my head to allow him better access, growing drowsy from the marvel of his hot mouth, his clever tongue, his blunt, grazing teeth.
“Is this your plan?” I whisper against his skin. “Push me as far as you can? See how long it takes until I break?”
“You’ve been pushing me since you arrived. It’s only fair that I return the favor.”
Suddenly, his palm skims my backside, lifting my leg to hitch it around his waist, skirts and all. He sinks his hips into mine, and the ridge of his arousal presses against the part of me thataches.
“Gods,” I pant. Heat crackles through my veins, and the air, perfumed with our sweat, thickens. “Damn it all, kiss me.” Clamping my hands around his head, I draw it down to mine, lifting onto my toes to meet him halfway. Boreas laughs. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sound.
Except my kiss falls to the wayside, brushing his chin instead of his mouth. Before I can remedy that, he tracks a slow path to the space behind my ear, where his teeth nip. The bright sting dulls beneath the brush of his lips.
My hand slips between us, cupping his erection. “Kiss me,” I demand. “Or else.” I tighten my grip to make a point.
He begins to pant as I trace its shape, circling the head, around and around and around, feeling dampness seep through the rough cloth. At the next brief squeeze, Boreas bucks his hips.
“You, Wren”—each word a sharp point—“are the devil.”
I gesture wiping away an imaginary tear. “I think that might be the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Then I begin to stroke, slow and easy. “Doesn’t change what I want.” His lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth—and other places.
A coarse rumble fills his chest, a sound of unadulterated desire, anguish and need and hunger. Wrapping his hand around mine, he begins to guide my movements, showing me the pace and pressure he likes. I linger around the head, working the heel of my palm in a circular motion against the flesh until, with a feral growl, he drops his hand and crushes his lips to mine.
His mouth, full of hot pressure, a quickening tongue, draws a moan from my throat. I plaster myself against him. Every sharp edge molding to every subtle curve. My hand falls away to grip his hair, his neck, anything I might reach. I chase his tongue with mine and when they clash with a savage thrust, he deepens the kiss until our mouths are so closely fused I grow dizzy from lack of air.
Boreas breaks away for a brief reprieve. “How do you get this thing off?” he growls, yanking on the laces crisscrossing my back.
“Allow me.” A short tug, and the laces loosen, allowing Boreas to drag the garment over my head. He takes me in: breastband, underwear, naked brown skin warmed by a flush. Deep hunger darkens the blue of his eyes.
“Incredible,” he says.
I’ve been called many things by men. Never incredible. “You’re saying that to get on my good side.”
“Wren.” He smiles, his hand skimming my lower stomach. “I’m already on your good side.”
For a time, his calloused hands roam my exposed skin, the sensation raising gooseflesh on my arms and legs. Palming the curves of my rear,he hooks his thumbs around the sides of my underwear. Two heartbeats later, I’m rid of my undergarments.
His nostrils flare at the sight, but I step close again, fingering the sleeve of his coat. “My turn.”
Undressing Boreas is a joy I didn’t expect. It must be savored. The stiff fabric of his coat splits open across his chest. One light tug, and it falls away from his shoulders. Next, his tunic, still warm from his skin. I bend down to remove his boots and socks before loosening the ties of his breeches. My fingers brush his stiff cock in the process, and I smile sweetly at him. A little torture never hurt anyone.
Then he stands naked before me. He is, to be clear, magnificent. A body of pure brawn: lean, ropy muscle dusted in black hair.
I press my palms to his pectoral muscles, sweep them low across his abdomen. Then I round his back to stare at the scarred ruin. If I could, I would take these hurts from him. But I can only press a soft kiss to the worst of the crisscrossing scars, feeling his muscles tense beneath my mouth.
