Page 164 of Dare

With anyone else, I would have said no. With anyone else, I would have sounded convincing.

Her head swung toward the dining table, where I’d laid out priceless plates, her beloved figs along with an assortment of berries and melon wedges, and stone chalices for the tea. Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day, and I had meant for this to be a commemorative one.

She swerved back to me and brushed her mouth over my bicep. “Will you let me try it?”

I winced, then ladled a spoonful and tested the fluid. The taste confused my palate, too sweet and too acidic. “I don’t think—”

But before I could dissuade her, she plucked the spoon—“Flare,” I growled—and presumably brought it to her mouth. With my back to her and one arm still wrapped around me, I pinched the bridge of my nose and waited.

She sampled the disaster, her breasts jiggling as she coughed in mirthful surprise. “That’s … um, delicious.”

Twisting slightly in her direction, I arched an eyebrow. “Try again.”

Faking it would not get past me. Because she’d learned this long ago, Flare broke into chagrined laughter, and my mouth slanted with humor.

The flames crackled, echoing through the dining hall with its restored table and chairs, newly swept floor, a display of ancient serving ware that Flare had discovered in an old hutch, and an urn of hibiscus flowers situated atop the mantel. A year later, this woman had transformed the ruins into more than a hideaway.

So much more. So much better.

Flare’s fingernails burrowed into my abs. “Happy anniversary.”

I skated my fingers over hers. “Is that what this is?”

I felt her nodding and smiling into me, a combination impossible to resist. “Well then.” I retrieved the lid with a cloth and covered the cauldron, then turned to face her. “Let’s have an anniversary.”

I gave myself three seconds to fetishize her just-fucked hair, golden eyes, and my shirt hanging inches past her hips. Rumpled. Edible. I grabbed the backs of her thighs and hoisted her off the ground. Beaming, Flare connected her forehead with my own as I walked us to the table. She made a noise of delight as I set her atop the surface, stood between her open legs, and picked a fig from the bowl.

Sketching the fruit across her mouth, I deepened my voice. “Open.”

Flare scooted closer, the tail of my shirt riding up to her buttocks, the heat of her cunt rubbing against my pants. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll repeat myself more clearly,” I deadpanned.

My oversized shirt sleeves hung low as she wrapped her arms around my bare shoulders, the delectable seam of her lips splitting for me and biting into the bulb. I watched her chew, the sight doing critical things to my pulse. “The Prince of Winter, forced to repeat himself?” she quipped after swallowing. “What a scandal.”

“A transgression indeed,” I concurred with a tilted head.

Flare stole the rest of the fig and urged it against my own mouth. “In that case, I might as well keep provoking you.”

I bore my gaze into hers. “Who says you ever stopped?”

Then I sank my incisors into the orb, consumed it in one gulp, and relished her dilated pupils. Disheveled, flushed from sleep, and half naked, we proceeded to feed each other. Taking turns, each of us selected from the arrangement of fruits and watched the other consume them to the final droplet of nectar. I lapped the remnants from beneath her jaw while she chuckled, then sucked on that spot until she gasped.

In turn, Flare drew her tongue over my fingers to mop up the juice, producing a jagged noise from me. Between bites and taunting maneuvers, we spoke of random things or lapsed into comfortable silence. Familiar. Intimate.

Pressing her to me, I sneaked my palms under the shirt and ran them over the tops of her ass. “What else are you hungry for?”

A blush stained her cheeks. “The one thing I can never get enough of.”

The hiss I’d been withholding sliced from my throat. “Fuck the food.”

My arm whipped across the table. Dishes and their contents flew off the edge, ceramic, silver, and stone crashing to the floor. Flare yelped, her irises gleaming. She liked disorder, preferring to call it “beautiful chaos,” especially when inciting it from me. Only this woman held such power.

My little beast. My beautiful chaos.

Seizing her face, I braced her head, giving my tongue the leverage to lick the rebellious mirth from her lips. Fuck it. Fuck everything but this. My mouth gripped her own, my tongue spearing against Flare’s.

Her elated chuckle disintegrated into a whimper, the noise activating every carnal impulse I possessed. Cupping her ass with my free hand, I hauled her against me. My cock thickened, rising against the flap of my pants and caressing her clit. Seasons flay me.

---