If those eyes waited for her on the other side, Deryn might just decide to take that path. A swift and sharp palm to her back—quickly supplemented by two more smacks—made her shake her head and, along with it, the vestiges of her own idiocy. The low voice that followed did the rest.
“Are all of you Crowharts always this careless?”
The tone was all derision and sarcasm, and it sent a frisson of excitement up Deryn’s spine. She smiled, then coughed some more, then downed the dregs of her beer, hoping it would restore her breathing to a semblance of normalcy. A semblance only, surely, since the proximity of the amber eyes also brought with it the perfume. Not even the smoke that blanketed the town and its residents could hide the notes of sandalwood and burnt sugar. Both tangy and gloriously sweet, the scent fit the woman.
As Deryn reached for the second beer Ionie had placed in front of her earlier, the eyes widening with something akin to speculation. Except that Deryn did not want to see any kind of speculation there. She wanted them to darken. Her smirk widened, and she drank again.
“Are you a glutton for punishment?”
Damn, that voice should be illegal. Probably was. A high-society drawl with power banking underneath. Like aged whiskey poured over cold, chiseled stone.
“I could be persuaded to be, if that’s your preference…” Deryn showed her teeth and watched the woman’s eyes flash. But it wasn’t anger this time. No, not the rage from the Atelier, not the derision of just a few moments ago. This was something else. Something Deryn was very much shooting for. Something darker. Hungrier. The stranger leaned in, the burnt sugar mixingwith the scent that was all woman, and Deryn nearly lost her head.
“In fact, I could be persuaded to be and do anything at all, if that will please you.”
She marveled at the steadiness of her own tone, since their proximity was making her lightheaded.
“Is that what you do, Crowhart? Please?”
The voice lowered again, becoming deeper, filling Deryn’s thoughts, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The emphasis on the last word was not lost on her. She licked her lips and watched the eyes follow her tongue with, dare she say, avid attention? Because it was both avid and very attentive. Deryn felt her hands tingle, her blood running hotter. Yes, her magic, attuned to her as ever, knew what it was sensing.
Interest. Curiosity. Hunger.
“It’s my greatest joy.” She leaned closer still and saw the pupils dilate.
“I know your type.” The woman reached up and tugged not too gently on a pink strand in the shaggy mass of Deryn’s short hair. Deryn closed her eyes and almost purred. When she opened them, the woman was smiling at her reaction.
“And what type is that?” Deryn caught the hand and lowered it to her mouth, biting on the pad of the index finger. The eyes stayed on her, the gaze never wavered. “Also, you have a remarkable poker face, I must say.”
“Your type? Weather vane. Fuckboi. As for the poker face? One develops whatever weapons one must.”
“Ouch.” Deryn let go of the hand and was pleased when it didn’t fall away, the fingertip touching her lips, slowly tracing the lower one back and forth. “I’m not much for the wind. As for the weapons? Do you really need more when you’ve got all this?” Deryn lowered her gaze to the body standing too close to hers, looking at the striking lines of long, long legs, full breasts… Thewoman did not shy away from her ogling. In fact, if Deryn were to judge, she welcomed it, reveled in it.
Well, there was much to ogle. The body was… A work of art. As was the face.
Deryn smiled when the fingers, still on her skin, jerked her face up by the chin and held it still, their gazes meeting.
When the tantalizing full lips caressed the shell of her ear, she trembled, unabashed. There was no point in hiding what this was doing to her. And why would she hide? She might be Deryn Crowhart and notorious for her ways, but she was always honest about them. About wanting what she wanted. And right now, she wanted this woman. She almost begged as the lips bit her earlobe, and then sharp teeth followed.
The bar was dark, and they were secluded in the shadows from everyone. Deryn knew nobody could see them, but it still felt too intimate, too much…
“Um, ma’am…”
The woman’s laughter was like honey—languid, sweet, sexy.
“So polite. So handsome and so polite. And so very naughty. What should I do with you, the Wandering Crowhart?”
If Deryn had more of her wits about her, she would have questioned the appellation. As it was, she sank deeper into the scent, and the eyes, and the touch, the whisper taking most of her rational thoughts from her mind and directing them downward, to where she wanted to rub her thighs together. The voice could probably make inordinate masses of people do inordinately inappropriate things with just a few words. Just lower that octave and go to town. Deryn would be among the first to comply. This woman was making her so weak. But she had been asked a question, and so she had to answer.
“Would it be cliché for me to say that there is nothing you couldn’t do with me? What would you answer to that?”
The fingers holding her chin tightened, and Deryn held her breath. A decision was being made; that much she could read on the face that didn’t give much away. Then the hold relaxed, and the woman pulled away, slowly dragging the fingertips across her skin till they let go. Deryn shivered, already missing the touch. Without a word, the woman stepped back and then out of the pub, Deryn left behind, watching her.
“Aww, you look forlorn there, Der.”
Ionie, who had just stepped out of the back room, had blissfully missed the entire exchange, for which Deryn was thankful. As the barkeep chuckled and reached for her glass, Deryn stopped her. A strip of ivory plastic lay under it, and before the bartender could notice it, Deryn covered it with her hand.
“You’re still nosy, dear.”
