“Three hundred years of practice.”
I laugh—a genuine, joyful sound that surprises me. “Is that what you’ve been doing for three centuries? Honing your bedroom skills?”
“Among other things.” He lifts his head to look at me, and the softness in his crimson eyes makes my heart clench. “Though I should mention—that was considerably better than any other time.”
“Flatterer.”
“No. Honesty.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You undid me, Isadora. Completely and thoroughly undid me.”
“Good. That was the goal.”
“Was it?”
“Part of it.” I trace idle patterns on his chest, marveling at how natural this feels. No awkwardness. No second-guessing. Just two people who’ve bared everything to each other and found acceptance on the other side. “The other part was connection. Intimacy. All those terrifying words I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.”
“And now?”
“Now they don’t seem so terrifying.” I meet his eyes. “Not with you.”
His smile is soft, without the usual sardonic edge that serves as armor.
“I love you,” he says quietly. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
The words send ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself. About us. About what’s possible between a perfectionist human and a chaos demon bound by an ancient contract.
“I love you too.” The admission comes easier than I expected. “God help me, I love you too.”
The second time is different.
Slower. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring every inch of my body with hands and mouth and that surprisingly dexterous tail. He finds the spot behind my knee that makes meshiver, the curve of my hip that makes me gasp, and the hollow of my throat that makes me moan.
“You’re studying me,” I accuse breathlessly.
“Learning you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Studying implies memorization. Learning implies understanding.” His tongue traces a line from my navel to the underside of my breast. “I want to understand what makes you feel good.”
“Everything,” I admit. “Everything you’re doing feels good.”
“That’s a start.” His lips close over one nipple, and I arch into the contact with a whimper. “But I want specifics. Tell me what you like.”
“This. Exactly this.”
“What else?”
I’ve never been good at articulating my desires. Years of suppressing emotions and maintaining control have left me tongue-tied when it comes to asking for what I want. But Mal’s patient attention and obvious care make it easier to find the words.
“Your hands,” I manage. “I like when you touch me like I’m something precious.”
“You are precious.”
“And your mouth. On my—” I break off, blushing despite everything we’ve already done.
“Here?” He kisses my neck. “Or here?” Lower, to my collarbone. “Or perhaps...” He trails his lips down my stomach, pausing just above my pelvis to look up with questioning eyes.
“Yes.” The word comes out strangled. “Please. Yes.”
