Hot tears formed behind her eyes.
His lips moved softly against hers, asking, seeking. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to welcome him inside. His tongue teased along the tender skin behind her lips and then around her teeth. Ambrosia tasted him back, afraid to move, afraid to break this tenuous connection.
“Ambrosia,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers. “Parfaite… Mon Dieu. you taste like heaven.”
One of his hands was curved around her neck, while the other cradled her jaw, his thumb brushing back and forth over the hollow just above her collarbone.
Right where her pulse thundered, wild and wanting.
The kiss deepened and she understood what he’d meant about not wanting to stop.
Her weight sank onto him, their bodies barely separated by the thin layer of her nightrail. She lifted one trembling hand to his hair, finally letting herself feel it—thick, dark, and just as silky as she’d imagined. She wound her fingers through it, held him close.
Her other hand traced the edge of his jaw. Solid. Rough. Real.
She wanted to dissolve into him. To be undone. To know all of his desire, to let it crash into hers and drown out everything else—every memory, every wound, every ache.
And for a few blissful moments, it felt as if she could.
But then…
He didn’t push her away. Didn’t break the kiss with a gasp or a plea for restraint. No. It was quieter than that.
His body stilled.
His mouth went lax against hers, no longer urgent or exploring. His hand, the one on her neck, went still too—resting there like other promises he couldn’t make.
She noticed the shift before she understood it. A subtle withdrawal. Not physical, not yet. But emotional.
Gone was the man who’d admitted to wanting her.
What remained was… restraint. Held breath.
An invisible wall that had slowly risen between them.
Ambrosia moved away.
Her limbs felt too heavy. Her heart, empty. Hollowed out by something that had only just begun.
He didn’t meet her gaze.
With a ragged exhale, Dash sat up. One hand ran through his hair, then clutched at the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
The warmth of a moment ago had evaporated. In its place—regret.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. It felt ridiculous now. Everything did.
He’d told her no. She’d pressed anyway. She’d kissed him. She couldn’t blame the wine or the stars. She’d wanted it. Wanted him.
“Please, don’t apologize.” His voice was hoarse. “I just… I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
That stung. Why couldn’t he just tell her? She thought that she deserved to know. Especially after… well, all of this.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?” Her voice was tentative, quiet. He’d said he wasn’t running from the law—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t running from something else.
He took her hand. “Not to worry, princesse.”
Just tell me!
