Heat flared between them, sharp and consuming. Her shadows wrapped tighter, holding them together like they were afraid of being separated. Tristan's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she made another sound that destroyed what was left of his restraint.
They stumbled backward toward the fire, mouths never breaking contact. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp and making his erection even harder each time. He walked her back until her shoulders hit the wall, pinning herthere with his body while his hands mapped curves hidden beneath layers of clothing.
"Tristan." His name across her lips sounded more like yearning than words.
He kissed down her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath his tongue. Her head relaxed back, exposing more skin, and her shadows wound around his wrists like silk restraints. Not binding, but guiding, encouraging, showing him where she wanted to be touched.
His hands slid beneath her shirt, finding bare skin that felt like fire against his palms. She arched into the contact, her own hands working at his shirt buttons with frustrating slowness.
He pulled back just enough to yank his thermal shirt over his head, hissing as the movement pulled at healing wounds. The pain barely registered. Maren's hands immediately found his chest, fingers tracing muscle and scars with reverent attention that made his breath catch.
She lifted her arms and he peeled the fabric away, revealing pale skin and the simple undergarment beneath. His mouth went dry. She was beautiful. All soft curves and strong lines, her shadows dancing across her skin like living tattoos.
Tristan kissed her again, harder this time, walking her back against the wall. Skin met skin and the heat between them became almost unbearable. His hands explored her bare back, her sides, the curve of her waist. She pressed against him, feeling the hard length of him through their remaining clothes, and made a sound that was half gasp, half moan.
Her shadows encircled them both now, creating a cozy cocoon of darkness and heat. They danced across his skin like physical touch, adding sensation on top of sensation until he could not tell where her hands ended and her magic began. One tendril traced down his spine while another curled around hisbicep. Her actual hands mapped his chest, his shoulders, his abdomen, fingers exploring every ridge and plane.
His hips pressed forward involuntarily, grinding against her. She rolled against him in response, her body fitting perfectly against his hardness, and coherent thought became increasingly difficult.
He kissed down her throat to her collarbone, then lower, while his hands explored the curve of her breasts through fabric. She leaned into his touch, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Tristan," she breathed, and the sound of his name nearly undid him.
His hand slid down to her hip, fingers finding the waistband of her pants. He paused there, giving her a chance to stop this before it went too far.
Instead she rocked against him again, her own hand sliding down his stomach toward where he was hard and aching for her.
"We should stop," Maren gasped against his mouth, even as her hand kept moving.
"Do you want to stop?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." Her hands traced his chest, fingers following the lines of muscle, then dipping lower to palm him through his pants. The touch sent fire through his veins. "This complicates everything."
"Everything's already complicated." His voice came out strained, his control hanging by a thread.
"More complicated then."
Tristan forced himself to step back, catching her wrist before her touch destroyed what remained of any restraint. His body screamed protest, wanting nothing more than to close that distance and finish what they'd started. But she was right. Tomorrow might bring exile or worse, and starting something they couldn't finish felt cruel.
They stood breathing hard, half-dressed, staring at each other across three feet that felt like miles.
Her shadows slowly unwound, retreating back to her with obvious reluctance. She grabbed her discarded shirt, pulling it on with shaking hands.
"We can't do that again," she said.
"Probably not."
"Definitely not." She wouldn't meet his eyes.
Tristan retrieved his own shirt, wincing as fabric caught on healing wounds. The pain helped clear his head, reminded him why distance was necessary even when every instinct screamed otherwise.
Maren climbed to the loft without another word. Tristan positioned himself near the fire, staring into flames and trying not to think about how her skin had felt beneath his hands, how her mouth had tasted, how perfectly they'd fit together.
His mate bond had felt like that once. Like recognition and inevitability wrapped together. But that was impossible. You didn't get two chances at that kind of connection. Yet, he knew, especially after tonight, he was.
22
MAREN
