I scan the room again, and my eyes find the door. I remember how we stumbled through it last night, shutting it behind us as quickly and as quietly as we could. After that, we held still, Dorian’s arm braced against the door, me slumped against the wall, as we listened for sounds of whoever came out to investigate. Thankfully, no one approached his door, and after a few minutes, I became painfully aware of how close we stood.
Dorian moves behind me again, letting out a sleepy sigh. I freeze, debating how the shells to get out of here without waking him. How did I get into his bed in the first place?
I close my eyes and replay the moment Dorian pushed off from the door and began kicking off his shoes, his movements clumsy. That’s when I tried to slip out so I could get back to my room, but my legs were still weak from the Twelfth Court, and they gave out beneath me. I sank to the floor and closed my eyes, catching my breath, and when I next dared open them, I found Dorian in front of me, hand extended.
I remember him helping me stand, but then it was his turn to lose his footing. My head spun and the next thing I knew, we’d tumbled in a tangled heap at the foot of his bed. Laughing like it wasn’t the most inappropriate thing in the world, he extricated himself from me and pulled himself to the head of his bed.
I pushed myself upright, but my head continued to spin.
Then came Dorian’s whisper. “You can lie down for a bit.”
“That’s not…” My tongue was too heavy to speak. I tried again. “That’s neither chaste nor appropriate.”
“Fuck chaste and appropriate,” he said then, laughing. I remember laughing too at the sound of profanity on his tongue. What would his brotherhood think of such language? Then he patted the bed and scooted to the far end. “Come. You’ll feel better.”
“I was supposed to make sure you felt better,” I said, but couldn’t find it in me to argue more. The prospect of lying down and stopping my head from spinning was too tempting.
That’s when I settled onto the bed next to him, several inches separating us. I don’t remember much after that. Maybe it was just silence.
But I do recall the last things he said to me.
His voice was barely above a whisper, each word coming out slow and heavy. “If we were at my old university and this was my dormitory. If I weren’t a brother of Saint Lazaro and you weren’t a princess…”
“Then what?” I remember asking, my body feeling heavy, lulled by the vibrations of his deep voice.
“Then I never would have pushed you away when you tried to kiss me. I would pull you close and let you kiss me now. I’d let you do more. And I’d do more to you.”
My breath caught then, but I was too tired to think much of it. “What would you do?”
The next word—the last word—came out like a soft lapping of a wave on a welcoming shore, so smooth and quiet while suggesting hidden depths just beyond it. “Everything.”
That’s the last thing I recall, and the word echoes through my head. A buzzing heat burns deep in my core, thrilling low in my abdomen. I know I should get up now before he wakes, but I’m not sure my legs would hold me. I’m too shaken, too wrapped up in that last little word.
Dorian moves again, his hips shifting behind mine, pressing closer. His hand begins to slide from my hip to my stomach, beneath the bottom of my shirt. I realize my blouse has come untucked from my skirt. I’d left my room in such haste before following Dorian last night that I simply tossed my blouse over my chemise…which means that’s all that separates his hand from my flesh. It moves higher, higher, each move slow and heavy, made from the depths of sleep, creeping just beneath the curve of one of my breasts. His hand pauses there, and I feel his face come just behind my neck, lips so close to my ear that when he releases the next tired groan, the sound sends a shiver from my spine all the way down to my toes. Warmth burns between my thighs, so I squeeze them tight, ignoring the sound of Dorian’s breaths, hard and heavy against my neck—
And then they stop.
Dorian stiffens behind me, the hand beneath my breast tensing.
I curse myself for missing my chance to leave earlier. What’s wrong with me? I should have fled the moment I opened my eyes and found myself in unfamiliar quarters. And now I have to deal with…whatever comes next.
Dorian sits upright and bolts off the bed. I do the same, feigning the same shock I see in his eyes. “Why the seven hells are you in my bed?” he asks, chest heaving.
I hold out my hands. “I didn’t mean to stay here.”
He blinks at me a few times. It’s obvious when realization dawns, bringing memories of last night, for that’s when he hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, cheeks blazing. “What the hell, temptress?” he mutters.
I take the chance to back toward his door. “I’m going now.”
He lifts his head and pins me with a glare. “What are you going to do?” His eyes turn hard, his tone laced with suspicion. “Did you…did you orchestrate this? Is this your way of forcing my hand and winning the contest? By tricking me into sullying your virtue so that I’m honor-bound to marry you?”
“You didn’t spoil my virtue—”
“Your reputation then.”
I give him a pointed look, fury boiling my blood. My words come through clenched teeth. “I’ll have no reputation to ruin because no one is going to find out, you clam-blasted son-of-a-harpy!”
“Clam-blasted,” he echoes under his breath, expression perplexed.
