I reached up and put my hand against his jaw. “I can work within the territory.”
He turned his face slightly into my hand, just slightly, and I felt the movement ripple through every muscle in my body. “The rest I will hold in reserve.”
“That seems wise.”
“That seems extremely unpleasant.”
He settled my body against his in a new way, leaning me against him, and his palm—flat, warm, heavy—slid down my torso, then to my thigh, spreading me open to his touch. When his hand cupped me through my underwear, I rolled forwardinto his hand, seeking more friction. His jaw shifted against my temple as he smiled.
His hand retreated, brushing over my stomach, then sliding into my underwear. Still, he circled, teased; his hands brushed over my lips then away; his thumb slid over my mound then retreated.
The first time he parted my lips, delving inside, was almost too much. My hand closed hard around his arm, fingers digging into the solid line of muscle. He stilled for a breath, then began again. Slow. Maddening.
A quiet exhale left me, thinner than I intended, and I pressed my face into his throat to catch it there, to keep it contained. His skin was warm, steady, his pulse even beneath my mouth in a way that felt like control made physical.
“Careful,” he murmured, though I wasn’t sure if it was a warning for me or for him.
I should have said something back, something sharp, something that proved I was still entirely in control of myself. But my body was growing hot with need and it was highly distracting.
His mouth moved against my temple, my cheekbone, the line of my jaw, in light, measured touches. His muscles shifted against my body as he adjusted to me without breaking that careful control.
I tightened my grip on his forearm, his muscles rippling with the motion of driving me mad. His hand moved slowly enough that I was attuned to every slide of his thumb, every movement of his fingers.
My breath caught despite myself, and I pressed harder into his throat to muffle the sound, my body tightening in response to something I could no longer pretend was manageable.
“Cara,” he said again, quieter this time. A warning, a question…my mind was not exactly at its brightest at the moment. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He shifted once more, his fingers curling against me rhymically, driving me closer, and the last of my restraint gave way, the tension breaking into something sharper, brighter, impossible to contain. I writhed against him, every nerve awake, every thought scattered and useless.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His breath was even in my ear. Mine was distinctly ragged.
“Sleep,” he said, softer than a command.
Perhaps a plea.
So I took mercy upon us both. I slept, and I did not dream, as if there was nothing dark and terrible waiting for us in the daylight.
Thirteen
Cara
The next morning came too early. Kiegan moved through the waystation before dark, past us and through the door, which I was vaguely aware of in that drowsy way when one is awake but deeply distressed by that fact.
He returned and nudged our feet through the blankets. “We should move.”
I was grateful that it was still dark enough that he did not see the way we were tangled together, with Fear’s hand pressed lower than was decent as he held me to him. Or perhaps I was grateful that he did not comment. We rose and dressed, and somehow that one orgasm had done nothing to reduce my frustrated desire for Fear.
Fear was still studying our route on the map when I slipped outside into the early dawn, where Kiegan was preparing the horses.
“They survived the night,” he said. “I worried about them in the stable, even with the wards.”
“Is that why you slipped out in the middle of the night?”
“No.” He stopped with his hand on a half-done buckle, then began moving again, decision made. “Nightmare.”
“You still have them?”
“My father’s still hunting me,” he said shortly. “Nightmares’ll stop when I kill him.”
