He sighs. “I don’t want to be the High King. But you challenge me in a way that nobody has yet, and it’s addicting if I’m being honest.” He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s moving the grapes around on the plate. Is he nervous?
“I guess we really are recreating the other night. You’re just saying the same thing, Asmo, but with different words. Last time, you said I was intriguing. This time, you’re saying I’m challenging—"
“Two different words,” he cuts in, still eyeing the plate in front of him.
“You just keep saying that you want me because I’m something you’ve never had before. That’s not a good enough reason.”
Finally, he looks at me. “Come here,” he says.
“What?” I ask him, exasperated.
“Come. Here.” He scoots back from the table and gestures toward his lap.
I can’t explain why, but I listen to him. I scoot my chair back from the table and go to him, slowly sitting on his lap sideways so I can look at him. He wraps his arms around me, and I put one arm around his neck.
“I can’t explain it, Mae,” he says, his voice low, soft, almost a whisper. “I can’t explain how I feel when you’re around. It’s like…a desire to protect you, to hold you, to cherish you. But there’s also this desire to push you, to piss you off, to drive you as insane as you drive me.”
“Look at me,” I say. He does, peering at me through his long lashes. “I understand what you’re trying—and failing—to say. I get it, Asmo. But I just don’t know if it’s enough.”
“Maybe it’s not,” he says. “But doesn’t this feel good? Didn’t it feel good last night?”
I nod, my cheeks turning pink again.
He stands, still holding me in his arms, then he sets me down gently. He kneels in front of me and says, “I meant it when I said I wanted to bow before you in this dress. You’re stunning, Mae.”
“And you’re deflecting,” I grumble.
“Let me show you how right this can feel.”
Holly and Koa’s warnings ring in my head.
Serpent hybrids use the art of seduction to manipulate others. If a prince beds you, he’s likely going to assume he’s gained an advantage.
I shove the thoughts away.
His hands settle on my hips, and he looks up at me. My breath catches in my chest at the image of him kneeling before me. All I can do is nod my permission for whatever he’s asking for. I don’t even care what it is. He can do anything.
His hands travel down, tracing the curves of my waist to my hips, then traveling to my upper thighs before settling at the hem of my dress. His touch is light, and I’m reminded of the way the petals felt against my skin in my dream.
With every movement he makes, my body lights up. Wherever his finger touches, my nerve endings fire, making me feel alive. It’s how my magic makes me feel: alive and alight with limitless possibilities. I feel infinite when I use my magic, especially when I push myself and discover that the boundary can be pushed. Like I have no idea what’s possible, but I can push and see. I can discover new parts of myself. This feels the same, like he’s discovering new parts of myself with every brush of his finger.
His finger slowly glides under my dress, hooking at the hem. He circles the hem all the way to the back, fingertips lightly trailing from the back of my upper thighs to the hollow behind my knees. He wraps his strong hands around the backs of my knees and pulls me forward, my knees now against his chest. His hands rove back up my thighs, stopping just before reaching my backside.
He looks up at me before pressing a kiss just above my knee, then places another one slightly higher. His hands drift up up and up, cupping my backside in his hands and squeezing. I stifle a moan as his kisses trail higher on my thigh, teeth and tongue and soft lips sending my blood into a frenzy and rushing immediately to my core.
He lifts my dress up, hitching it up and over my hips. Chilly air greets my bare skin, goosebumps erupting. When he notices that I’m not wearing any underwear, his answering grin is wicked, sinful, delicious. His mouth makes its way to my inner thighs, and I part my legs on instinct. His pace is agonizingly slow, melting me into a puddle.
I’m soaking, the slickness in between my legs pooling already.
He freezes.
The sight of him on his knees before me threatens to undo me, but something’s wrong with the way he’s frozen, staring at my upper thighs.
“What’s wrong?” My voice comes out hoarse.
His thumb traces the scars on the tops of my thighs.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. He wrenches his gaze from my thighs and looks up at me. My intense desire for him suddenly dissipates at the question, shame replacing it.
