Page 71 of Trial of Curses and Fae

It’s gentle, raw as a wound. He tastes like river water and smoke, like hunger and need. I gasp and he swallows the sound, kissing me deeper, harder, his hand tangling in my hair.

I want to fight it, but I can’t. My whole body is on fire, every nerve lit up by fear and the weird, sick joy of being alive.

His hips grind into mine, and I feel him—hard, urgent, the tip of his cock pressing against my thigh. There’s nothing between us. My blanket is a bed beneath me, and his is only half-draped over his shoulders, doing nothing to hide what’s happening.

He kisses down my neck, along my collarbone, biting just enough to hurt. I arch up, not sure if I want to push him away or pull him closer.

I do both. He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and bites me again.

Above us, the moon breaks through the hedge. Silver light cuts across his face, catches the wild look in his eyes.

He’s not gentle. He’s not asking permission.

And I don’t want him to.

He grabs my thigh and rocks against me. I rub myself against him, surprised to find myself wet, even though nothing about this moment makes sense. All of this is so new and exciting that I’m just following my instincts, rather than logic.

I grab his ass hard, digging my nails in, and he shudders, then laughs, the sound wild and feral.

“Gods, Alette,” he says, voice raw. “If we’re going to die in this place, I want you.”

It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think.What do I want?

Above us, the moon and the hedge and the stars spin. Then they disappear behind a figure, a wolf, huge, white as bone, eyes gold as coins, watching us from the shadows. My nails dig into Sylvian’s shoulders. My body tenses, and the man on top of me turns slowly, as slow as humanly possible, to face the creature above us.

A low growl rolls from the beast, and his fangs flash.

Fuck.