My heart flutters. “I prefer peonies.”
Her brows draw together. “Okay. Anyway, I’ve got to go. He may or may not have hinted that that busty waitress would be joining us.”
Hmm, well I guess the busty waitress took the hint that Dante wasn’t interested.
“Cover for me,” Nadya adds, “in case Indira comes looking.”
I follow her to the door. “Absolutely.”
She leaves, and after hooking the latch, I wander over to the window. The night sky is clear, and as I gaze at the sky, I get the feeling the stars twinkle brighter here than they do at Ivystone.
A gentle knock sounds at the door. I steel myself, thinking up a lie to tell Indira. Unless it’s Nadya, having forgotten to douse herself with perfume. With a sigh, I stride across the room, unhooking the latch and pulling open the door.
But it’s not Indira or Nadya.
Dante stands in the dimly lit hallway, his expression unreadable in the flickering glow of the lanterns.
I almost gasp, instinctively darting a glance past his shoulder to ensure no one sees him. “What are you doing?” I whisper, reaching for his sleeve and yanking him inside before anyone can take notice. The door clicks shut behind him as I turn, breath unsteady. “How did you get past Sir Greystone, Sir Holden,andIndira?”
He smirks, stepping closer. “I have my ways.”
I narrow my eyes. “You used your glamour on them, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer—at least not with words. Instead, his hands come up to cradle the sides of my face, his palms warm against my skin. His gaze searches mine, dark and intent.
“I’m surprised you got this far,” I say, yet I can’t stop myself from arching into him. “I thought for sure at least one of those waitresses would have cornered you by now.”
“Don’t you know better by now?” His thumbs move in lazy circles on my jawline.
“What do you mean?”
“There isn’t a person in the world who could keep me away from you.”
And then his mouth is on mine.
His lips are warm, insistent, stealing the breath from my lungs before I even think to resist. My fingers tighten around the front of his tunic, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away before Indira walks in on us.
But my resolve, my clear thinking, my cautiousness—it all shatters beneath the weight of this kiss. His hands slide back, threading into my hair where it’s loosened from its pins, tilting my head as he deepens the kiss with aching reverence.
I let myself fall into it, into him, for just a moment. A moment where there are no titles, no mourning period, no prying eyes. Just Dante and me.
Then reality crashes back in.
With a sharp inhale, I press my palms against his chest and breakthe kiss, stumbling back a step. This isn’t his private room back at the castle. We’re on the presentation tour now. There are too many factors that could ruin this for both of us. “Dante, we can’t—”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice husky. But he doesn’t move away. He gently brushes my hair from my shoulders, taking slow and steady breaths, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. “I’ll go.”
He should, but those two words are like daggers to my gut.
His breath is uneven as he studies me, and my heart pounds against my ribs, my body still burning where his hands were. His gaze is locked on mine, as if waiting for me to agree with him, that it’s best if he goes. If I tell him to leave, he will. But I can’t seem to form the words.
Instead, I step forward, closing the distance between us, tilting my chin up just enough to meet his lips again. Just one more kiss. One small taste to get me through the night. A groan rumbles low in his throat, and then his arms are around me, strong and sure, one hand cupping the back of my head while the other splays across the small of my back, drawing me flush against him. His hard length presses against me through our clothes.
Heat flares through me like wildfire. I should stop this—I should pull away before it becomes impossible—but gods help me, I don’t want to. His mouth moves against mine, slow at first, almost tentative, like he’s savoring each stolen second before it’s ripped away. But then his grip tightens, fingers tangling in my hair, and I melt into him, my hands wandering up his chest, over the firm muscle beneath his shirt.
He sucks in air through his teeth as my fingers trace the scar just above his ribs. His own hands move, skimming down my waist, gripping my hips like he’s anchoring himself to me. His name is a whisper against my lips, reverent, like a plea.
His hands roam back to cup my ass. “Gods, Celeste. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this tour without being able to touch you.”
