“She can’t—” Thorne’s voice sticks in his throat as I angle myself toward him and place a hand on his chest. The other anchors against the backrest. From the corner of my eye, I see his hands curl around the wooden armrests of the chair, his grip so tight his knuckles turn pale. His discomfort is so delectable I can almost taste it.
Still, I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable right now either. My heart thuds so hard my entire body trembles to the beat. But the hand pressed to Thorne’s chest, palm splayed over the gold silk of his waistcoat, reveals his chest pulses even heavier, faster.
“I’ll watch from here,” Monty says, his voice barely above a whisper. Whether he realizes how little I want to hear it right now or if he’s merely enraptured by the view, I know not. Nor do I care. This ismygame.Mywin. My object of desire and revenge.
I am going to destroy Thorne Blackwood.
Keeping one hand on his chest, I slowly slide the other from the backrest to behind his neck. I hold his gaze and let my thumb drift down the column of his throat until it settles over the raging pound of his pulse. My lips quirk to tell him Iknow. I’m fully aware of how unsettled he is, how vulnerable. Inch by inch, I bring my lips to the corner of his jaw and lightly press a kiss. His chest hitches, and I feel his heartbeat slam against my palm. I trail my lips up the side of his face, then alight another kiss on his cheekbone. Pulling back slightly, I watch his eyelids flutter closed. I dig my fingertips into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.
“Fuuuuck,” Thorne utters, the word more of a breath than anything, too quiet for Monty to overhear.
I’m nearly giddy with satisfaction, my blood sizzling with a pleasurable heat that radiates from my head to my toes. It tingles my skin, radiating from every pore. The air grows thick with it. Or…no, it’s my magic. Darkness falls around us, and my favorite meteor shower devours the walls of the gallery. It’s the same thing that happened when Thorne and I danced, but I don’t try to suppress it this time. What does it matter when I’m the only one who can see it?
I shift my position in Thorne’s lap and lower my mouth to his jaw again. This time, I part my lips and trail the tip of my tongue along his jawline until I reach his ear. There I pause to whisper, “In reply to your earlier statement, no, I wasn’t able to finish.”
He shudders and I press my final kiss to his earlobe, ending it with a graze of my teeth. In one graceful move, I release him and slide from his lap.
My meteor shower dreamscape dissolves, returning the daylight and the walls of the gallery. And—to my great displeasure—the sight of Monty. It was easy to forget he was here while I was tormenting Thorne, but now his dimpled grin is impossible to ignore.
His eyes are wild with delight. “That was fantastic. Yes. Exactly what I wanted to see. That touch at the end with the meteor shower—”
My heart leaps into my throat. “You saw that?”
“Oh, was I not supposed to? Well, regardless, it set the scene for a lovely kiss. I wondered if you took after your mother, but I’ve never heard of a succubus who could cast illusions outside of dreams. It has me curious what other magical feats you can accomplish when fueled by desire.”
I blink at him. No one has ever seen one of my dreamscapes before. Only Thorne, and that’s because he’s a subject I’ve framed. Could I have…dragged Monty into a dream? No, that’s not possible. I never framed him.
But that means…
I remember what my mother said about succubus magic. How arousal in her subjects isn’t necessary but does strengthen her abilities.
I look back at Thorne, slumped forward in his chair, elbows propped on his thighs. The way he hangs his head makes him look…drained.
Stars above. Did I…evoke arousal in him and…drain his energy somehow? That’s what the darkest tales of succubi always suggested. And if so, did I use that energy to make a more powerful dreamscape—one others could see?
“As impressive as that illusion was,” Monty says, pulling me from my thoughts, “that’s the evidence that impresses me more.”
I frown, following his line of sight. At first I think he’s talking about Thorne—who still hasn’t lifted his head—but then I notice one of the wooden armrests of the chair. It’s…splintered. Right where his hands had been curled.
Monty chuckles. “Such violent reactions, Thorny. And you still owe me a cup.”
“Fuck off,” Thorne mutters.
“Will do. I assume you need a moment to…recover. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Monty saunters toward the door, then pauses at the threshold. Turning back to face me, he says, “It would be a shame to spoil that kiss with one from me, so take this instead. You won that round.” He presses a kiss to his fingertips, then flutters them at me in a wave. With that, he leaves me alone with Thorne.
I face him, my heart sinking with guilt. He still won’t look at me, won’t lift his head. My gaze roves to where he broke the armrest, and my guilt deepens. In the moment, I relished his torment, his desire, but now…
Swallowing my pride, I utter a curt, “I’m sorry.”
Finally, he straightens in the chair. I expect him to look pale, sickly. Instead, his eyelids are heavy, his cheeks flushed. With a long sigh, he meets my eyes. “For what?”
“I didn’t mean to drain you. My magic has never done anything like that.”
He frowns. “Drain me? What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t I…use some strange magic on you?”
He chuckles. “Whether you did or did not, I don’t thinkdrainingis the right term.”
