Page 119 of Thrones We Steal

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same.” I’m breathless. “I just needed to—”

My words are cut off by his mouth pressing itself onto mine, banishing thoughts and words to another planet entirely. Fissures of pleasure rip through my skull as his fingers thread my hair and hold me in place so his lips can pull at mine, tug, nip, caress.

He tastes of whiskey and spearmint and Henry, a flavor I didn’t know is necessary for survival until a few weeks ago. I move my hands up his chest and neck and into that incredibly soft hair I fantasize about. My back arches to meet his body. He groans and pulls me closer. His hands find their way down to my waist.

Will kissing him always be like this, this desperate attempt to get more but never quite satisfying the hunger? His touch is determined and intentional. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants. I pull back just enough to say, “What’s happening? I thought—”

He nuzzles that spot beneath my ear that has a direct connection to my groin. “Do you know how bloody hard it was to stand there listening to you, when all I wanted to do was this?” He covers my lips with his own, explores my mouth with his tongue, insistent and possessive and completely intoxicating.

“I thought—you didn’t—want this,” I say during tiny snatches of breath.

He draws back and focuses on trailing kisses down my neck. “I said I can’t. I never said I didn’t want to.”

Whatever that means will have to be addressed at a future point. Right now it would take Hercules himself to remove me from Henry’s arms.

I tug his mouth back to mine and elicit a moan as I rake my fingers down his jawline. His fingers trail along my leg and bunch the silky fabric of my dress. “Every time I see you in this dress,” he murmurs against my lips, “I lose another year of my life.”

I wiggle closer in response and feel him tighten. He inhales a gasp, then spins me around. The zzzzz of the zipper echoes in my belly. It feels like he’s unzipping my soul, not just my dress. The brush of his fingers feels like flames against my skin. Instead of letting it drop to the floor, he carefully turns me around again to face him, holding the dress in place.

His eyes have grown black and I swallow hard at the intensity in them. “I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve visualized this dress pooling at your feet,” he says. He slides a finger under each thin shoulder strap and with a tiny flick, both straps slide down my arms. He lets out a shaky breath as his eyes traverse my bare body. “God, you are so fucking beautiful.”

Then, like he can’t handle another second of not touching my skin, he pulls me against him, dragging his hands over every inch of me until I’m on the verge of crying out in frustration. He slides both hands behind my thighs and lifts gently. “Wrap your legs around me, baby.”

I do as directed and fold my arms around his neck as he holds me against his chest. He continues his gentle assault of my mouth as he walks us toward the opposite side of the room and opens the door to the master suite.

He carries me to the bed and deposits me on it, then crawls until he’s hovering over me. Holding himself up on his hands, he gazes down at me. I spiral and drown in that look.

“Are you sure about this, C? It’s not too late to stop.” His voice is low and rumbly. It turns my insides to jelly. He’s wrong though. It’s much too late to stop.

I reach up and pull his head down, earning a growl of pleasure as he kisses me with the passion of a starving man.

He directs his attention to my neck and jaw. I squirm and moan under the sweet torture. “That sound is my new drug,” he says.

He moves to my feet and drops my heels onto the floor. The action reverberates through my bones. He grasps my left foot in his hand and presses a soft kiss to the arch. A grin splits his face. “Remember the night we had drinks in my room? Your modesty was applaudable, but your bare feet were so sexy I had to walk away before I did something stupid.”

I gasp as he eases himself on top of me again. His body is a delicious weight. He resumes his exploration, nipping my skin all the way down to my navel. He leaves a trail of kisses along my waistline. The resulting tremors are an 8.0 on the Richter scale.

When he sits up again, my fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt under his steady gaze. I’m a stick of butter. He’s the sun. Black ink peeks through as the fabric separates. When I finally finish, he tosses it onto the floor and reclaims my mouth, the separation having been almost more than either of us could bear.

“Do you know how long I’ve fantasized about this?” His voice is reminiscent of a pine forest: rough bark, soft needles, enveloping security.

I shake my head, surprised by the admission.

“Too long.” He nips at my nose.

I press my palms against his chest. “I want to see your tattoos.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Tell me what they mean. Starting with this one.” I trace my fingers over the inked arrow symbolically buried in his heart.

“That one has a few interpretations.”

“Tell me one.”

“A damaged heart can’t keep beating.” He shrugs and I know he isn’t going to say more about it.

He leans back as I run my fingers over the tattoos. His breathing becomes heavier with each touch. I feel myself becoming drunk on the power of it.

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