Page 26 of Fate

He hummed. His hands drifting down too. To catch at the shift caught between them. To smooth his hands up her thighs.

“Not one for modesty, are you?” It did not sound like a complaint. Not when he delved higher still, smoothing his hand up her torso, covered by thin cloth and hiding precisely where he meant to touch next.

She pressed her hands against his bared chest and arched a brow. “You should not complain. Not when I come to bed and you dress like this.”

He smiled at her. Not quite the proper word—not when his eyes were dark, and it quirked on one side more than the other. It made her insides twist to see it, to know, to besure,that he was pleased. And it was because of her.

“This is how I dress for bed. I can assure you; I had no particular plans of seduction.”

“Oh.” She didn’t mind. Not when he looked as he did, and she liked to touch. “Well, I did. Considered coming out in nothing at all.”

She was rewarded with his eyes drifting downward. To where he touched but could not see. Her own hands drifted to the ties at her shoulders. To the knots he’d fiddled with but had not actually undone. “Do you mind?”

Another snort. The shaking of his head as his hands reached further still. To the soft swell of her chest. They really were not much to behold, and she could admit, if only in the privacy of her own mind, that she looked forward to when she was full and lush after her first fledgling came.

Would it be soon? Was that something that needed discussing? There were chapters on such matters. Of joining and mingling and eggs and fluid and a welcoming womb. And hers would be, wouldn’t it? But then there was an entire sectionon wanting, and she had tried to puzzle that out, because her parents never seemed tonotwant another in their brood, so maybe that wasn’t so complicated after all.

She tugged at the delicate bows she’d crafted at her shoulders. Then an extra knot because it would have been terribly embarrassing to lose one of them during the dancing and have her shift hanging strangely during the set.

The lights were low, but that was all right. She knew the feel of it well enough. How to tug, how to wriggle her thumb just so, and then when to pull the long end until it all tumbled free.

A simple matter. Dressing and undressing.

Made to feel like something else entirely when it was done perched across one’s mate. To feel the heat and weight of his attention as first one shoulder dropped, and then the other.

When fabric pooled about her middle, covering only the most intimate part of her and nothing else.

Would she stand to be free of it entirely? Or would he turn her onto her back and ease it the rest of the way down, perhaps kissing down the length of her as he went?

There was no doubting he was pleased. Not when he looked at her that way. When his hands were quick to follow, gentle and careful with her. She felt beautiful, if perhaps a little mad. That bare skin could inspire such captivation. Had she looked at him so when she rejoined him in this chamber? She couldn’t recall.

She reached for her shift about her waist, wanting to tease him. “Or would you prefer that I be modest?”

He grabbed hold of her wrists, and yes, they tumbled then. When suddenly his weight shifted and she was not straddling him any longer, but landed with a breathless sound as her wings jostled and she tucked them just in time so they were not squashed uncomfortably.

But she didn’t mind. Couldn’t mind. Not when he captured her mouth and kissed her deeply. When he left it only to whisperat her ear, his breath hot and his voice squirming at her insides. “Never,” he swore.

The bond swelled. Or maybe that was her heart. Or maybe the two were so artfully entwined that she could not tell the difference any longer. That was all right. Most especially when everything felt peaceful and exciting all at once. They were precisely where they were meant to be. She was meant to feel the weight of him as he hovered over her. She was meant to squirm when he kissed down her neck. When his lips touched her breasts, when his kisses reached their centres and suddenly it was not thoughts of fledglings and future fullness, but sensations that were new and so very present.

The same as they ever were, but different.

Changed.

Altered, because it was him. Because he was the one kissing her, and she needed to touch him. To clutch and to hold and make sure that he knew she was pleased that he was pleased.

And then there was a delicate sort of pressure, and it wasn’t just about pleasing him. It was a swirl of sensation, a tug and a pull that sent a flare through the rest of her—set her wriggling beneath him as she dug her nails at him, and had to remind herself firmly to let go. Not to hurt him, not to do anything at all that meant he might stop...

Yet he hummed.

And the bond pulsed in time with the rest of her.

Because he liked for her to squirm. Liked her tofeel.

Just as she knew he liked the way she pulled him to her. That he liked her fervency as she urged more of him on top of her, wanting the weight. To be as close as they possibly could, even if her need for breath made it a too-short interlude.

And it was delightful. The feel of skin against skin, warm and cool in turn, the shivery feeling that skittered down her arms asshe hugged him to her, her fingers tangling in feathers, soft and downy as she pressed deeper.

She was met with a groan. As if he was sore in places and she’d pressed too hard—or maybe not enough? There was a nudge in her chest, as if she’d found the right of it. And her hands moved cautiously back to where they had been, and this time she found the base of his wings—taut where skin met feathers.

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