The town dropped away beneath them.
The wind shifted midflight, turning electric and biting, carrying the metallic scent of an approaching storm rolling inland from the coast.
Thunder grumbled low and distant—like a warning he was too distracted to heed.
Rhavor adjusted his grip, his jaw tight.
Flying had never required effort before.
It was as natural as breathing, as mindless as a heartbeat.
Flying with Sylvie pressed flush against him was a different matter entirely.
Her fingers traced the rigid, tectonic lines of his abdomen.
Slowly.
Curiously.
His wingbeat faltered.
He nearly banked them straight into a soot-stained chimney stack when she wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his jaw with quick, breathless kisses.
“What are you doing?” he growled, the sound half-smothered by a rough laugh. He corrected their course with a powerful sweep of his wings. “Do you want us to fall, woman?”
“You caught me once,” she purred against his ear.
Her breath was hot.
Too hot.
His wings stuttered for a dangerous, heart-stopping second before instinct—raw and territorial—forced them steady again.
“I think I’m in good hands.”
He tightened his hold, hauling her higher against his chest, bracketed by his strength.
She wasn’t just tipsy.
She was exploratory.
Her hands wandered across the expanse of his chest.
Down the hard plane of his stomach.
Lower.
She dragged her fingers over the cold brass buckle of his belt and made a pleased little sound that hit him like a physical blow.
His wings jerked again.
“Sit still,” he warned.
She absolutely did not.
She wriggled in his arms, laughing against the pulse point of his throat, her body moving with a deliberate softness that made a precise landing statistically unlikely.
Her fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt.
