He cuts off her words with another kiss, and her mirth evaporates as her heart races. The kiss quickly deepens, and sparks tickle her lips, accompanied by the hint of berries on her taste buds. His plant magic?
As she ponders that, he trails kisses along her jaw and nuzzles her neck.
How far is he planning to take this? His lips are warm against her skin, and the smokiness is stronger than it was. He even smells sweet.
“I long to get lost in you,” he whispers in her ear, and her breath comes heavily at the heat in his voice. “But my magic won’t let me.”
“You taste like berries. I don’t understand.”
“My plant magic seems to be searching for you. I...I think it believes you’re mine now. It’s a strange sensation.”
When something slithers along her leg, she gasps, and he pulls away, mortification in his eyes. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I—”
“Did you grow a vine from the bed?” She stares at the shoot where it lies motionless near her leg.
“Forgive me. I—”
“Cerian, stop. It’s fine. It just startled me. I’m not scared of your magic, and apparently, it likes me.” She leans back on her elbows and offers him a smile.
“It wants you,” he whispers. “Almost as much as I do.”
Her mouth opens, but no words come. It’s hard to breathe when he looks at her that way.
He takes in a lungful of air and exhales slowly through pursed lips. “I think I need a distraction from your distraction.”
It takes a moment to focus her thoughts. “All right. How about some glop?” She shakes her head. “Stew. I meant stew.”
That wrinkled brow of his returns, but he doesn’t argue. Before he moves to the table, he waves his hand at the vine sprouting from the bed, and it recedes again.
“Forgive me if more plants find their way to you unexpectedly,” he whispers.
“It’s all right, Cerian. Perhaps you can let them out to play soon.”
His eyes grow wide, and she bites her cheeks. She probably should have kept that thought to herself. For now, anyway.
“Glop,” she says, her voice a little hoarse. “I mean stew. Now look what you’ve done to me.”
Her words draw out his smile. That beautiful smile he hides far too often.
He offers her a hand, and when she’s standing, he wraps his arms around her and rests his cheek on her hair.
This time, he doesn’t have to say anything. She understands the love he’s trying to convey.
“I love you, too, my elven prince,” she whispers.
When he lets go of her, he looks down at the bowl of stew and sighs. “I don’t know if I can eat this.”
“Maybe just one bite in case your mother asks? Then I can sweet-talk the hotel cook into giving me something you’d like better.”
He sends her a warm look, his emerald eyes full of something deep that sweeps through her all the way to her toes.
Together, they sit as Cerian lifts the spoon and makes another face at the thick broth dripping back into the bowl.
“It would have been better hot,” she says.
“I’m not convinced heat would make this palatable.”
“Well, it would be better.”
