He studies my face as though searching for what I am not saying. “Has he grown suspicious?”
“Not openly.” That is the closest I can come to honesty without alarming him.
I lean back against the table behind me. “Have you heard anything?”
Ashford exhales slowly. “I sent word through a contact in Lyon. If anyone can trace the sort of men who work with…older agreements, it will be him.”
“That sounds like hope, not progress.”
“It is both,” he replies. “These things do not move quickly. And when they do, it is rarely in ways we expect.”
I watch him carefully. There is something restrained in him, something measured.
“Are you thinking of something else?” I ask.
“I am thinking of consequences,” he answers. “And I would prefer you not rush toward them.”
“I am not rushing.”
“You are preparing to,” he says gently.
He pulls me closer. “I need you calm,” he says. “Not burning through yourself before we know where we stand.”
The truth is, I am tired of being calm, but I do not say that. Instead, I ask, “And what would you have me do?”
“Rest,” he says, though the word is softer than a command. “Let me shoulder what I can.”
His hand rises as if by instinct and brushes a loose strand of hair back from my face. The gesture is so ordinary that it unsettles me more than urgency would have.
We simply stand there, close enough to feel each other’s breath, and the tension that has been sitting in my chest all week loosens.
When he kisses me, it is not reckless. It is not hurried. It is something careful, as though he is reminding both of us that this is real and not some imagined rebellion. His hand rests at my waist, reassuring and grounding.
I allow myself that softness; I allow myself to lean into him.
“I know what you need, Ada,” he rasps. “Tell me anyway.”
I moan quietly. “Why do you want me to say it?” I ask.
His eyes darken. “Because I am yours, and…” He moves his hand underneath my skirt, “because it excites me to hear you speak your desires out loud.”
I inhale sharply as his fingers dig into my thigh. “I want you…I want you to—” I can’t finish my thought.
“Yes, Ayna’vael, you want…?” he teases.
“I need you to fuck me with your fingers. I need to come on yourhand so badly, I need—”
His mouth crashes over mine before I can finish. His fingers are already sliding in, because he knows what I need.
“You are so wet, Ada,” he rasps, alternating between pumping his finger inside of me and rubbing his thumb over my clit.
“Oh Devil’s mercy, I am so close,” I breathe, and I feel Malric’s chuckle all the way to my core.
“Is that what you need, Ayna’vael?” he asks, his fingers pumping harder now, while I rub my clit against his palm.
“Yes, don’t stop, Malric, make me come!”
He groans, a deep guttural sound that works like an aphrodisiac.
