His expression was unreadable. “A binding mark. Every demon of rank has one. It shows… connections. Contracts of significance.”
“Have you always had it?”
“No.” His hand covered hers over his heart. “It appeared three weeks ago. The day we signed our contract.”
“And mine?”
“The same.” He traced the mark above her heart through the silk, making her shiver. “I thought it was just the contract at first. But this—” He pressed their joined hands against his chest, both marks pulsing in sync. “This isn’t standard contract magic.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled her down to kiss her, urgent and a little desperate. “And I don’t care. Not right now.”
She kissed him back, her hands exploring the planes of his chest, the mark warm beneath her palm. When she scraped her nails lightly down his abs, he made a sound that vibrated in her teeth and settled low in her stomach.
“Ava.” Her name came out rough, almost pleading.
“Yes?” She hooked her fingers in his waistband.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Pretty sure you’re already technically dead.”
“Demonically accurate.” He flipped them in one smooth motion, settling between her thighs. “But if this is my second death, I’ll take it.”
She laughed, but it turned into a gasp as he kissed down her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His fingers finally—finally—pushed her pajama top open completely.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. “Pulchra. Yafah. Belle.”
“Are you—oh god—are you complimenting me in multiple languages?”
“Mmhmm.” His mouth closed over her nipple, and coherent thought became difficult.
“That’s—ah—very romantic but also slightly—oh fuck—pretentious.”
He lifted his head, grinning. “You’re critiquing my dirty talk?”
“Someone has to maintain standards.”
“I’ll show you standards.” He kissed down her stomach, fingers hooking in her pajama bottoms. “Though you should know—” He pulled them down slowly, torturously. “I’ve been imagining this for weeks.”
“Weeks?” She lifted her hips to help. “Try since the elevator.”
He groaned. “You’re not helping my composure.”
“Good.”
When his mouth found her—hot and sure and exactly where she needed—she stopped caring about composure entirely. Her hands tangled in his hair as he worked her with the same focused intensity he brought to contract negotiations.
“Victor—” His name came out wrecked. She didn’t recognize her own voice.
He murmured something against her inner thigh in that liquid, dark language—Abyssal, he’d called it—and the vibration combined with his clever tongue sent her spiraling.
When she came back to herself, he was kissing his way back up her body, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Smug,” she accused breathlessly.
“Earned.” He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips. “Also, you’re stunning when you come. I could watch that every day and never get bored.”
