Lore palms my waist, reeling me back into him, then catches my chin between his stained fingers and angles my head until our lips align. “I know the mark you wear is that of my people, Behach Éan, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like mine, and mine alone on you.”
I swallow, attempting to ease back the emotion clogging my throat, but it stays and swells, until I think I may choke on the love I feel for this man.
After another thorough inspection of my darkened skin and tattooed cheek, he erases the space between our lips with a kiss infused by such possession and hunger that my knees go weak. I clasp the forearm pinned to my waist for balance, then reach my other arm up and sink my hand into his hair. When I tug at the silken strands, he releases a rumbling groan that echoes against my palate and tongue and courses over my skin like warm syrup.
I hinge my neck as far as it can go and lick across the seam of his mouth. My mate seizes up, and then, nostrils flaring, he growls words I don’t grasp and drops the hand cradling my face to the elegant panel of violet satin sheathing my legs. He hikes it up and up, and then pushes his hand under the hem, drags aside my underwear, and sinks two fingers inside of me.
I choke on my breath, then choke again when he begins to pump them into me. “Lore—aren’t we—awaited?”
“We are. Better come fast, my Little Bird.”
When he begins to circle my clit with his thumb, I mewl. He sweeps away the sound with his tongue, then proceeds to swallow every little moan that spills from my throat. My toes curl in the spiky-heeled satin slippers that tie around my ankle with a pretty bow to match the one on the bodice.
Hmm . . . Later tonight, when we retire, you’ll have to wear those shoes and your stripes, and nothing else.
Oh, Gods. My throat closes as every muscle in my body tightens and spasms, and heat rockets up my core.
“Good girl,” he murmurs as he slow-twirls his fingers around my spasming center as though to baste them in my wet heat.
Once my body quiets and my head slumps back against his collarbone, he draws his lips and fingers from my body. My underwear settles against my still-tingling nub, eliciting another fierce shiver, and I melt against him a little more.
As my skirt unravels, settling weightily over my boneless legs, he lifts his blackened fingers and pulls them apart, emitting a satisfied hum when threads of my pleasure stretch and shine between them.
I expect him to lean over me and run water and soap over the mess I’ve made, but instead, he sucks them clean, streaking his mouth black, then rubs the pad of his thumb over the charcoal residue to sweep it off.
“Ready, mo khrà?”
“Um, yes. But aren’t you going to wash your mouth and hands?”
“Why would I do that?”
I gape at him. “Because you’re going to be interacting with people.”
“Tell me, Fallon, have you ever seen me touch anyone but you with my hands or my mouth?”
“I—I . . .” I rack my brain, realizing that,no, Lore never touches anyone but me with his hands or mouth.Actually. . . “You’ve been known to punch my father.”
A brazen smile curves his mouth. “Though I’ve no plan to reset his nose tonight, if I absolutely must, I’ll make sure to use the hand that wasn’t buried between your legs.”
A new wave of heat billows up my chest at the mere mention of the place on my body his fingers quarried only minutes before.
Those same fingers now brush a smudge of charcoal off my chin. “Have I told you how exquisite you look wearing my stripes and feather?” His golden stare caresses his handiwork. “Thu thòrt mo focèn ánach, Behach Éan.”
Before I can ask him whattoo thurt mo focken anockmeans, he translates it into Lucin for me.
“You take my fucking breath away, Little Bird.”
Sixty-Three
“Istill cannot believe you propositioned that pointy-eared swine in front of your mate.” Phoebus shudders so hard that it vibrates the chair he’s been sitting on for the last hour. “That’s grounds for friendship termination.”
I loose a theatrical sigh. “Thank Gods I’ll still have Syb. Then again, once I’m queen, I’ll probably have a whole slew of people pining to become my bestie, so replacing you should be a cinch.”
He tears his gaze away from Connor to cast me a long-suffering look. “How droll you can be, Picolina.”
I grin.
Sybille plops a plate topped with every offering imaginable on the table, then drags her chair back to sit. When Phoebus reaches over to pinch a roasted potato, she taps his hand. “Get your own food. Baby and I are hungry.”
