His hands tore at my gown. Found the laces at the back and pulled, not bothering to untie them properly, just ripping until the fabric gaped and cold air hit my spine.
My own fingers were just as frantic, shoving his coat off his shoulders, pulling at his shirt, desperate to get to the heat beneath.
Skin met skin.
I gasped against his mouth. His chest was a brand against my palms, hot, alive, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. I ran my hands up his ribs, across his shoulders, down the planes of his back, mapping his body with desperate fingers.
He lifted me higher against the wall. Ground his hips against mine, and I felt him, hard, ready, wanting.
The friction sent sparks through my borrowed nerves, artificial pleasure mixing with artificial warmth until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my throat. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I pulled him closer.
“Don’t stop.”
His hands found the laces at my bodice. He didn’t bother untying them. Just pulled, hard, until the cords snapped and the velvet gaped open, baring me to the cold air and his burning gaze.
“You’re on fire.” His palm pressed flat against my sternum, fingers splayed wide, covering the space where my heart was hammering its false rhythm. “Burning up. What did you take?”
I should have answered. Should have lied, deflected, done something clever.
Instead, I arched into his touch.
“More.”
“Greedy thing.” His mouth found my collarbone. My shoulder. The swell of my breast above the ruined bodice. “You taste wrong, you know. Chemical. Like alchemy and desperation.” His tongue traced the curve of my breast. “I should stop. Should drag you to the healer. Find out what poison is making your heart race like a trapped bird.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop.” I grabbed his face, forced him to look at me. “I don’t care what you think I took. I don’t care what questions you have. Right now, I need you to touch me. I need you inside me. I need to feel something real.”
His eyes searched mine. Black and fathomless, seeing too much.
Then his mouth crashed into mine.
“Say my name,” he growled against my lips. “When I touch you, when I’m inside you, you say my name. I want to hear it.”
“Cador.”
“Again.”
“Cador.” It came out breathless. Broken.
“Good girl.”
The praise shot through me like lightning. My fingers clawed at his shirt, yanking it free of his trousers, shoving the fabric up until I could press my palms against his bare chest.
He groaned at the contact. My hands were fever-hot from the petal, his skin warm beneath them, and the combined heat was overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.
“Desperate little bride.” He lifted me higher against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist, the heavy skirts bunching between us, and then his hand was sliding beneath the velvet, beneath the layers of petticoat, finding bare skin. “Your pulse is racing. I can feel it everywhere I touch you. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.” His fingers traced up my inner thigh. Slow. Deliberate. “You’re terrified. I can taste it under the chemicals. Fear and need and something else.” His fingers found my center, stroked once, and I gasped. “Hunger. You’re starving for something, aren’t you? What do you need that badly?”
