“I don’t know,” he answers. “But should the opportunity arise, I can promise you that I’ll try.”
I turn up my wine glass several times as he works, tenderly massaging. I don’t need him to be kind. I need him to be self-serving and arrogant and cruel, all the things history has told me about him. And with him touching me like this—taking my pain—I need him to be even worse than I ever believed. Because I fear he might be the greatest personification of every weakness I’ve ever had when it comes to men. Kindness only makes matters worse.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself who he is, but try as I might, I can’t latch on to any distaste for him tonight. Not right now. Instead, I set my empty glass aside and lean my head back, relaxing as the tight soreness in my ankle and the weight of the last few days leave me.
“You hate that I make this feel good, don’t you?” he says after a while.
The wine is slowly rivering through my veins, so much so, I can’t even lift my head to glower at him. “Yes.”
“I’d ask why, but it’s because you know I could make you feel good in other ways too.”
Now,I lift my head, even if a bit wobbly. “Anyone can make me feel good in other ways. You are not special, wolf.”
He smiles, still working. I can see the swelling going down before my eyes. Either that or all the wine I’ve ingested on an empty stomach has fully and truly kicked in.
“I bet I’m more special than you give me credit for,” he counters, that mischievous shimmer in his eyes returning. “You aren’t curious as to what a god’s cock is like during sex?”
All right, so itisthe wine. I’m obviously a tad drunk because instead of kicking him in the face with my now pain-free foot, I snort-laugh at him. “Unless it’s blue, which yours is not, or shoots rainbows, not in the least.”
His smile brightens, as though he’s truly enjoying this conversation, which, I realize, he probably is. “No rainbows,” he says with a small laugh. “But endless pleasure? Yes.”
With those words, the moment shifts. It’s as though I come back to myself, sensing the small change in his touch, now more like a caress than a healing method. And his eyes. Those golden honey pools, glowing in the candlelight as he stares at me, feel like they’re tethered to my core. With the right look, in this moment at least, he could probably convince me to do just about anything with him.
He slips his hand up my leg again, but this time he also lifts my other foot, resting my calves on his knees. Such an indecent position for me to be in with him, and yet I can’t pull away.
Desire strikes in a heady rush as he runs his hands from my knees up my inner thighs, dragging my gown with them. “I smell what you want, Nephele. I’ve smelled it for weeks. It’s torture.”
I grip the arms of the chair. I should stop him, but his voice is pure sex, and though I hate that it makes me melt into a puddle of want beneath his touch, I cannot seem to do anything but shift my hips, just enough to give him access if he wants it, and I know he does.
He glances to where my robe and gown are bunched at my thighs, and I watch him swallow. When he looks back up, his irises are flecked with fire.
The remnant of his heart, hanging between my breasts, warms against my skin. Magickally, the sides of my robe pull apart under his gaze, revealing the gown beneath, the pearled tips of my nipples evident under the silky fabric. It dawns on me that he’s literally undressing me with his eyes, and I’m letting him.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he says, making my breaths come harder and faster as he continues rubbing my thighs, his thumbs following the flourishes of my witch’s marks, his hands slipping higher and higher, his gaze intent on mine.
When he grazes me through my undergarments, I gasp and arch back, lifting one hand to grip the wooden spindle protruding from the top rail of the chair. Instinctively, I angle my hips up again.
Neri’s face darkens as he takes a deep inhale, and once more, he grazes me, this time over my clit. “The way I could devour you right now,” he whispers. “The obscene things I would do.”
I press against him, wanting him to prove himself, to stroke me until I’m mindless.
When he doesn’t, I brazenly lift one foot, resting it in the cradle of his thigh and hip as I lean my knee outward, opening myself more fully for him.
A low growl sounds in his throat as he kisses the inside of my knee, his tongue tasting my skin as he strokes his hand along the outside of my leg. When he looks up at me again, his fangs slowly appear, pushing against his upper lip until he opens his mouth ever so slightly, revealing the glinting, sharp tips.
Though he looks capable of ripping out my throat, his fangs don’t scare me. They make me tingle. Make my breasts grow heavy. Make my clit preen.
“Little Bird.” His voice is low and husky, vast as night and sensual as the rub of silk on skin. “You’re practically begging me to fuck you, and you have no idea how badly I want to.”
“I think I might,” I say, noting the impressive bulge in his trousers.
Somewhere in my mind, I know I’m not supposed to wonder about what he might be like in bed. But right now, a more carnal part of my senses wants him to show me.
He leans in, dipping low, and gently bites my inner thigh. “Stop thinking things like that, or I’ll give you what you want and then some. I’m most certain that if that happens, you will hate me even more come morning.”
It takes a moment to process his words, but once I do, I feel around in my mind. My construct is down, and he’s there, at the fringes. Not fully invading. Only observing.
Push him out, Nephele. Push. Him. Out.
