Page 88 of The Trick of It

“Do you like my new costume, Rhys?” she whispered, sounding fifteen and uncertain again, even to herself. She could feel that day around her, see the tent walls flapping in the wind, taste the nervousness on her own tongue, the little thrill of hope. “Is it attractive? Does it suit me?”

They stilled together, their feet falling silent at the conclusion of the question, at the moment of truth hanging in the air.

He stared at her, inhaling slowly through his nose as he regarded the dress, his eyes dragging down over her body, hugged and flattered by the rich, scandalously cut fabric. He was leisurely, slow, soaking in every visual detail of her body in that dress, down to her toes and then back up again. There was no shame in his indulgence, no rush in where he lingered.

When his eyes finally snapped back to hers, after he’d examined her throat, her jaw, her lips. He simply said, “Yes,” and then took one stride forward, dug his fingers into her hair, and crashed his mouth down over hers.

She barely had time to gasp, to process what he’d done, her fingers coming up to grip him about the arms.

He walked her backward, devouring her, his tongue rolling into her mouth, crowding her until her thighs came up against the deep sill of the bedroom window, cool and firm through the fabric of her dress.

His hands were on her waist, running upward, the satin and velvet rumpling under his palms. He moaned into her mouth, sounding desperate with want, maddened by it, and pulled back to look down at her body in the dress again.

He pinned her where she was, his thigh sliding between her legs, and held her face, his thumbs rubbing along her jaw as they grazed lower, over her throat and down to her shoulders, where he pushed the fabric down, down over her arms, tugging it down, lower on her breasts, his mouth descending to trace the pattern of flesh revealed.

She arched her back, holding either side of the window to stay in place as he freed her breasts from the fabric, filling his hands with them and sending his tongue, hot and hungry, sliding over her nipples.

“Ffyc,” he muttered against the flesh there, drawing the rosy tips into his mouth and sucking hungrily as his tongue flicked.

She released a sound then, her head falling back against the pane of glass, hair weaving around her arms.

He was already rucking her hem up, gathering the skirt up her thighs. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, and so, so unbelievably clever.

“Thief,” she murmured as he got his fingers between her legs, as he teased her. “Liar.”

“Oh, aye,” he answered, grinning up at her from her exposed breasts. He grabbed her by the hips, hoisting her onto the windowsill and holding her in place as he threw her skirt up the final few inches, bunching it around the tight, unmoving space between her body and the glass. “Guess what I’m stealing next?”

She did not have time to answer.

He fell to his knees, pushing her knees wide apart, and took a taste of the next course in this feast.

She might have screamed, in another home, on another night. She very nearly did, instead pulling the sound inward and swallowing it with a helpless groan. His tongue was just as quick, just as dexterous as his fingers, and he was using them much the same way, stroking her, toying with her.

“Mine,” he said, between tastes. “You are mine.”

She could only gasp in response, her body trembling every time he groaned in satisfaction, every time he slid or thrust his tongue against her.

She caught sight of herself in that mirror, dress nothing but yards of fabric about her waist, her breasts wet and heaving, and Rhys Cardadoc, kneeling between her legs, claiming her like a ravenous beast.

She couldn’t decide which view she preferred. Here she had both, the reality of him, just there, soft curls against her thighs or across the room, a rogue despoiling a maiden who looked all the willing.

She didn’t swallow her cry fast enough this time, her hips jerking under his firm grip, her body pulled into the gravity of his. She heard him again, hovering in the air, claiming she was his. She closed her eyes but felt the image of him knelt there burnt into her memory, both near and far, haloed in a gilded mirror.

She gave one final, rolling shudder as she came apart against him, for him, because of him. And still that did not seem to sate his hunger. He dove deeper, savoring this new delicacy, and gentled his tasting only as her apex began to descend.

He stood, not bothering to remove his own clothing as he stepped between her spread knees and admired the way he’d pulled down the front of her dress once more. He jerked at the fabric of his pajamas, moving the soft brush of cotton against her legs as he gripped his own cock, freeing it and pressing its head against her still-tender entrance.

She sucked in a sharp, little gasp of air at the connection, at how those sensitive, little thrills of magic against her skin jumped further to life.

“I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time,” he whispered to her, his lips still shiny from her climax, “not having you. Not claiming you. You are mine, Seph. Did you know that?”

She nodded, her lashes flickering as he pushed himself into her, thick and thrumming, the heat of his body flashing into hers.

“You are mine,” he said again, withdrawing slowly before pushing back in firm and fast. “And I am yours, aren’t I?”

“I …” she attempted, only to gasp in another jolt of pleasure as he repeated the motion again, slow withdraw, punishing, hard thrust. “Yes. You are mine.”

“I am yours,” he agreed, leaning forward, pressing his hands into the cool, wooden sill on either side of her as he began to move, gliding fast and slick. “I am yours.”