“This I cannot do. If anything, I will be even nicer.”
I scrub at my cheeks even as I fight a smile of my own. “You are ridiculous.”
He eases forward, his breath fanning across my neck as he whispers, “You like it.”
He’s right. I like it very much. Almost as much as I like the way he starts trailing his finger down my arm.
“You are cold?” His question is whispered low against my collarbone.
These chills have nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the Unseelie fae so near, I can smell the rain on his green skin.
Need rushes through my blood like the river raging outside our haven. Pounds in my pulse like the heavy raindrops assaulting the stone ledge.
“No, I’m not.”
He draws back a fraction, his gaze slipping down my throat to the goosebumps on my arms, stopping at the stiff peaks of my breasts pushing against the thin fabric of my bra. “Nia Quill . . .” He clicks his tongue. “I think you are lying.”
Lifting my hand, I trace the sharp edge of his jaw. His cheekbones. The bow of his lip. So incredibly soft when the rest of his body is hard as the walls of this cliff.
He makes no move to close the distance between us, no move at all. I’m not even sure the man is breathing. He certainly isn’t blinking as he stares into my eyes, his pupils blown wide.
“How would you kiss Gia Gill?” I whisper.
His lips graze my fingers when they flatten. “Gia Gill does not exist.”
A good thing, because if she did, I’d have to poison her. I drag my fingers over his mouth once more, pressing my body closer to his heat. “Humor me.”
His forehead meets mine before he dips in for the softest phantom of a kiss, fueled by months of longing.
It’s not enough. Not at all. “I won’t break,” I murmur against his parted lips.
He draws back, his dark eyes searching.
There’s a beat of question.
A spark of realization.
And then he launches forward, binding his mouth to mine, gripping the back of my head with both hands, his fingers tangling in my matted hair as he parts my lips with his tongue and licks into my mouth.
Holy heavens . . .
The feel of his rough tongue dragging across mine forces my thighs to press together. He’s as eager as he is enthusiastic, a heady combination.
He traces his fingers down my spine to the line of my undergarments and back up again, callouses igniting my skin as he makes his way over my ribs to my chest. He drags a knuckle over the stiffened peak once. Twice.
I arch my back toward him, begging for more of these sensual touches. “There’s not much there.”
Sharp teeth graze the column of my throat. “You are perfection.”
With him touching me like this, I feel perfect.
I slide the straps of my bra down my arms, until the entire thing falls around my waist. Maddox traces the patch of pale skin where no sun has ever touched, then drags his finger over the pebbled tip. “So pink.”
The wonder in his voice makes me giggle. I suppose he wasn’t expecting that considering his own are a darker shade of green than the rest of him.
Leaning down, he latches onto my breast, his sandpaper tongue flicking like he’s been made to do this. Just enough of a rasp to drive me wild. To drive me clean out of my skin, clutching him against me, never wanting him to move.
“What about number eight?” he murmurs against my breast.
