Last night’s party, the feel of his skin on mine, my forced betrayal, all unfortunately fresh on both our minds.
My eyes travel over him, then the bed. We’re barely a step away from each other, when he hisses, “Should I be looking for assassins in the shadows?” He looks down at me, hunger and wariness warring in his eyes.
“You have to know I wouldn’t have gone along with that—”
“If your friends weren’t at risk,” he fills in, bored. Yet he waits, as though he wants more. His jaw flexes, as if he’s trying to clamp down the words, but he still says, “Did you actually want me?”
Heat creeps up my chest, burning up my throat until the words crack like a log giving way in a bonfire. “I’m not that good of an actor, Draven. My body wasn’t lying.”
“So, it’s just your body that wants this.” He moves closer to me, his hooked finger caressing up my throat, stopping under my chin as he tilts it up, so I look at him. Is that allhewants?
The truth is I don’t know what I want from him. At first it was the power and protection he’s promised. His throne will allow me to find justice, my family. All my desires and motivations wrapped up in him.
But it’s more complicated than just that. What I feel for him is beyond what brought me here; it grows every day, feeding on everything he gives. A fire that consumes all, burns for everything.
And I think we both know it.
I don’t know what I want from him. I just know I want … him.
“Would you be satisfied with so little of me?” I ask, not ready to answer what is building between us. Not ready to let myself be vulnerable or have what little is left of my heart be torn from its strings again. There’s a good chance this will end in disaster; believing anything else seems too naive.
But we are bound together, quite literally, by our magic, by the claim, too. Maybe this gambit works only if we both just break our fucking pride and put our fate in the gods’ hands?
Draven searches my eyes, his breaths ragged.
“I’d beg on my knees just to get that much of you,” he breathes.
This promises annihilation.
“Then beg,” I whisper.
Draven’s eyes darken and his lips crash against mine. He is demanding, unyielding, unquenchable. Cupping my face in his hands, he walks me back toward the bed,ourbed, and then his hands travel to my waist, gripping around my sizable backside, and lifts. Something about feeling featherlight in his palms has me slickening, a tingling rising in my chest, peaking my breasts. He flattens me to the mattress, and my hands comb through his hair, stroking the ridges of those horns. What perfect handles. I tug his mouth to my neck and the moment he sucks against it I’m surrendering against him, his fangs scraping my skin in a way that has me writhing. I couldn’t hold back now even if I wanted to.
His weight is pleasingly dominating, ungiving as my hips grind against him. He chuckles into my ear, tongue lashing against my neck, fangs leaving traces up the side, as if praying to bite once again, to worship and consume me as sacrament.
“Gods, Rune, are you trying to get me to cum before I even fuck you?”
It’s my turn to break, a smile inching up my face. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Yet I can feel his thick hardness pressing against the fabric, a promise of what I have to look forward to. His hands entwine in my hair now, tugging back, and my neck arcs against his mouth. My bones go molten, body loosening in the best of ways.
Sucking and teasing, he moves down, stripping off my shirt as he goes. The part of me that cares for him more than I will admit wants to slow down, suddenly self-conscious of my body. Draven fingers the clasp of my bra, right between my breasts. With a movement that speaks of too much experience, he breaks it free, and the insecure part of me grasps hold of my wits again, hands flying to my chest.
He stops immediately.
“What’s wrong?” The way his eyes weigh with hunger has my grip relaxing.
“You’re just …” But words fail me. He looks so tousled, his hair messy, lips swollen from kissing my skin. My cheeks flush and lines of consternation crease his dark brows. “Practiced.”
“Dearest … are you saying you’re inexperienced?”
“I’m no virgin.” I toss him a snarky smirk, and he smiles, clearly not one either. “But I’m also not a conquest. So, tell me, Draven … what does that make me, to you?”
His gaze is a caress. “It makes youmine.”
There’s a release in me. I let go, surrendering, lifting my head to claim his lips.
His kiss is calmer, drawn out, tasting every inch. Savoring me like the rarest of wine, as if we might be separated for a lifetime. I cling to his shirt with one hand, cupping his face with the other. His mouth moves to my neck again, and it undoes me.
