I deepen the kiss, hesitant at first, then braver when he follows my lead with equal enthusiasm. His mouth moves against mine like he is memorizing me. Like he has been imagining this for centuries and still cannot quite believe it is real.
Our tongues touch, he tastes of smoke and night air and wine.
The world narrows to warmth and breath and the slow pain of lips discovering one another.
When I shift closer, he makes that sound again—low and helpless and full of wonder. It vibrates between us, and I realize with a jolt that he is not trying to hide it. He is not embarrassed by his pleasure. He lets me hear every soft sigh, every unguarded murmur, as though my touch is something precious rather than owed.
For my entire life, kisses have been preludes to negotiation. To expectation and power.
This one feels like being chosen without condition.
His thumb brushes my wrist again, but not absently now. Intentionally. A slow stroke that matches the unhurried rhythm of our mouths. He leans into me, the touch of my tongue drawing soft whimpers from his chest.
When at last we part, it is only by inches. Our foreheads rest together. His breathing is uneven, almost shaky. He lets out one final, quiet sound—half-laugh, half-disbelieving sigh.
“If this were a deal,” he says softly, thumb brushing over my bottom lip, “it is one I could never hope to fulfill.” His voice lowers. “There is nothing I possess that could equal what youhave just given me.”
I can only stare at him. Then something warm and fearless rises inside my chest.
“Good,” I say softly.
His brows lift slightly.
I press my hand flat over his heart, and it is beating just as wildly as mine.
“Then do not try to repay it,” I murmur. “Keep it.”
His breath stutters, and before he can answer, he glances toward the door and his expression shifts.
“Rowan will be back any second now.”
Only then do I realize—my feet are not touching the floor. A startled laugh escapes me as he lowers me to the floor, my knees feeling unsteady when they meet the ground.
“What just happened, I—” I begin, then stop, shaking my head.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
I take a step back, but I do not look away, I cannot seem to.
Something in me has settled, something long restless has gone quiet. And then, absurdly, happiness bubbles up. It rises so suddenly I clap both hands over my mouth to contain it—but the giggle slips through anyway. Light and unrestrained and entirely unlike a queen.
He blinks at me, and then he smiles. Not the careful, edged smile he wears when he is in company.
A real one. Lop-sided, bright, and boyish. Which only makes me laugh harder.
The door opens.
Rowan steps in, halting when he sees us both grinning like conspirators. He looks from me to Ashford, then back again.
“Have I missed something?” he asks.
“We were enjoying a perfectly pleasant conversation,” Ashford replies smoothly. “You are welcome to join us, provided you intend to contribute something equally delightful.”
Rowan folds his arms. “I am simply wondering what has you in such good spirits after tonight’s events. You are not known to make the ladies laugh.”
Ashford presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I am an exceptional conversationalist. Wit beyond compare. Charm in reckless abundance.”
“You clearly were struck over the head.” Rowan huffs.
