She shook her head at the same time that she was parting her lips. He gripped her hair, tugging her head back. His other hand kneaded against her dress where her scars rested. His touch was hard, as though he had something to prove.
“You see?” he breathed in her ear, careful to keep his lips from touching her skin. “It’s allowed. It doesn’t leave marks.”
She panted, “I don’t think this is what the mage had in mind.”
“Damn the mage.”
His fist tightened in her hair, and she tipped her head back further. Her neck was bare, and she could feel how badly he wanted to run his lips along her throbbing pulse, but instead, he moved his hand to her backside. Before she realized what was happening, he picked her up and set her on the worktable next to them, pushing aside reams of fabric and thread, which fell to the floor.
“We should stop,” she whispered, though she didn’t want him to.
“I can control myself,” he said in that husky voice. “I won’t touch you. I swear it. But I need to feel you. I need to be with you, Bryn.”
His hands bunched the fabric around her waist. She was half afraid he would rip her dress’s seams open, but instead, he lowered his gloved hand to her boot, running it up her bare ankle. She felt the slick warmth of his glove and tipped her head back, lips parted. His gloved fingers caressed her bare calf. They traced the underside of her knee far up her skirt. He was breathing hard. So was she. His gaze was on her face, then focused on her lips, as his hand worked under her skirt. He dragged his hand past her knee to the sensitive area inside her thigh. She bucked on instinct.
“Shhh,” he said, his eyes dilated and dark. “Close your eyes. Spread your legs.”
Her cheeks burned. She started to protest, but his hand against her inside thigh was impossible to resist, and she knew it was wrong—knew they were skating dangerously close to treason—but it felt so unfathomably right that she couldn’t bring herself to stop. She arched her back. Opened her legs another inch. A soft growl came from his throat as he leaned in, pressing his lips to her clothed shoulder. His gloved finger ran to the edge of her undergarments, dragging back and forth over the fabric. Bryn felt on fire. She’d always stopped him before when they’dcome close to impropriety, and he’d always done as she’d asked. But tonight, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop.
“I can’t . . . ” She didn’t even know what she was trying to say. “I don’t . . . ”
His shallow breaths came fast as he ran the leather glove over her undergarments. Then, without warning, he slipped a finger under them, breaching her core. She cried out softly, and the sound seemed to drive him wild. His other hand cupped her shoulder as though to keep himself at a distance—to protect him from his instincts.
She closed her eyes again, leaning back against the wall. When she didn’t stop him, Rangar pressed his finger deeper into her, where no man had ever touched her. She gasped, and he growled. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips were dangerously close to her own.
“Don’t kiss me,” she warned.
“I don’t care,” he said in a growlsome voice. “I don’t care if they see my mark on you. I don’t care if they hang me for it. I need to touch you, Bryn.”
His hand worked against her core, and she latched onto his shoulder, twisting her hands in his shirt’s fabric, moving her hips as her body instinctively told her to do. He leaned closer, pressing his groin against her leg.
He moaned near her ear, “He can’t touch you like this. I’ll kill him. I will.”
“Shh. Don’t think about him.”
“He gets to touch you. He gets to have you. To take you to his bed tonight.” His hand moved faster. Bryn knew this was very much against the spirit of Mage Marna’s hexmark. What they were doing was dangerously close to treason, gloves or not. It might not leave a black mark on her, but what if someone opened the door and caught them?
“Rangar, we should stop.”
“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Tell me to stop, and I will. But I don’t give a damn what we should or shouldn’t do, only what you want. Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
She sucked in a breath as his hand moved faster. Saints, had he done this before? Of course, he had. The world wasn’t fair—men didn’t have to remain chaste as women did. But she couldn’t imagine he’d had that look on his face for anyone but her. That look that was so feverish, so drunk on the smell of her, so intent on making her feel exactly what he wanted her to feel.
She let out another gasp, and he whispered in her ear, “Give yourself over to it, Bryn. To me. Do you think Trei can make you feel this way? I want you to remember, when he takes you to bed tonight, thatIwas the one who made you feel like this.”
She could barely process his words. His hand on her shoulder was hard, his fingers pressing into her skin. He was so dangerously close to kissing her but held himself back. She knew she would hate herself in the morning. This was a sin, even if he didn’t leave a mark. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop. The pressure was building at the base of her abdomen, and all she wanted was to feel more of him. It washimshe wanted.Himshe loved as much as the air itself. Damn it all, she was ready to rip that glove off him and press every inch of her bare flesh into his hands.
Then her pleasure crested and crashed over her, and she cried out and grabbed him around the shoulders, breathing hard, just aware enough to ensure she didn’t touch his bare skin. His hand stopped and traced down her leg, then he ground his hips harder against her with a groan.
“Bryn, close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes,” he said, panting. “Until I tell you.”
She did. She heard the fumble of his clothes and another groan, and it was clear enough what he was doing, though she’d never been close to a man when he’d done it. He kept one hand on her waist, his fingers digging into her, the other hand giving himself the same pleasure he’d given her. She felt him shudder and then breath heavily, and then heard more adjusting of clothing.
