I want to devour her.
Fuck.
If you were not a queen, I’d kiss you. Were I not a gentleman, I’d do far more than steal a kiss from your desiring lips. I’d use your moans and cries to stake a claim upon this field. I’d use your fingers—that dig into my back as I claim you—like a shovel. I’d build a home here, on this field where I first made love to you—where I savored every inch of you, where your tears of pleasure watered the soil for more of our love to grow.
I would completely erase you. Then, I would redraw your definitions. I’d show you what affection is, what love and respect are. I’d make every man I stood next to look less than.
Selene’s eyes glance at my mouth. “I wish we had different lives.”
Why didn’t you want me to hear that, Selene?
With a hard gulp, she tries to swallow her words down. The pain of it parts her lips, inviting me to slip my tongue inside and soothe her.
This is wrong.
I need to stop these thoughts.
How do you stop a shooting star? The only way is to collide with it. But then you destroy the star.
It’s best to let it shine until it leaves your horizon, or it burns out.
I need these feelings to fizzle out!
My nostrils flare wide. Blood.
Shit! My blade cut her.
It’s small, only a paper cut. The drop hangs onto her skin, like a child begging me to catch it as it jumps.
I’ve scented fae blood plenty of times. It’s repulsive. Nature’s warning: consuming it is toxic.
Why does she smell so tantalizing?
Even though I haven’t tasted her, it feels like honey is coating my tongue.
Air fills my palms. My sword drops. My tongue darts out.
Closer, one more inch, and I can taste her. One drop on my tongue would answer all my questions. One drop and my magic and body would know if she was my mate, or if this is a game of seduction she’s playing.
There, I said it. Mate.
Is she my mate?
The beast inside me roars.Claim her. Mine, mine, she’s mine.
“Mine.” I watch the droplet slide down her neck. The hunger that growls up my throat isn’t from my stomach. It’s from the mate magic swirling deep, waking up, stretching, readying to fight. It’s dormant inside us all. Sometimes it wakes; other times, you live life without ever finding your fated mate.
“Titus,” she hisses a warning.
“Do you feel it?” My voice is feral, claws scratching against stone, in a deep, dark cavern.
“Our feelings are irrelevant.” She presses her palm to my chest, blinking away tears. “Control yourself.”
Control? If I drank from my mate, my magic would grow tenfold.
Magic. Would Everett’s magic grow?
That’s why she is denying this. To protect me.
