Page 35 of How To Please A Princely Fae

“To the bone, if you let it.” I grin manically at him, pleased at my violent segue.

“Vile,” he says agreeably, then takes the dragon skin gloves from their hook and holds them out to me. “You’ll want these again. I assume you took them off because you simply can’t live without touching me.”

My mouth drops open, and he tips his head back and lets out a laugh, his wings stretching out full behind him for a brief, glorious second.

It takes me too long to get a grip on myself, during which time he’s grinning at me like a cat with a canary.

Chirp hoots softly from his perch on the door, and it feels like they’re in cahoots, laughing at me.

“Thank you,” I tell him primly, snatching the gloves out of his hands.

Or, at least, I attempt to, but he tsks at me, not letting go of them.

My brow furrows.

“You can at least let me help you put them back on,” he says silkily. He slowly pulls open the glove, and when I look up at him, all I see on his face is unfettered desire.

I swallow, knowing all too well my damnably pale skin is giving away just how flushed and hot I feel, and knowing he knows.

Which I also know is a problem.

Really, it’s a lot of knowing.

I would rather just turn off my brain and not know, but here I am, knowing too much and knowing this won’t end well.

So I thrust my hand inside the glove as fast as possible, then snatch its mate away from him and tug it on myself.

He sniffs, sounding put out, but when I dare to glance at him again, his shoulders are shaking from suppressing a laugh.

“You really are the most stubborn witch, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “Now let’s make some soap.”

“Why?” The syllable is a purr, velvet-smooth against my senses.

Sadly for both of us, I’m stubbornandI’m very good at ignoring my senses.

“Are you thinking dirty thoughts? Is that why you’re so fixated on soap?”

“I’m fixated on soap because it’s my job, which provides the roof over my head, and yours, actually,” I tell him, lust turning into annoyance so fast I suspect I may have whiplash later. And not just in my neck.

Can you get whiplash in your babymaker?

I might sell potions for all sorts of ailments, but I can’t say I have one for that.

Huffing, I continue. “Not all of us were born princes with a silver spoon in our mouths.”

Instead of looking annoyed, as I intended, Kieran has the audacity to simply look more amused. “I should hope not. That would make for an incredibly boring world, and quite too many silver spoons. I have to say, I much prefer the idea of you being a princess to being another prince. Nothing wrong with the other, I simply adore the idea of sinking to the hilt into your slick heat.”

I goggle at him, lye solution near forgotten on the counter behind me as I process his words, but he’s not done.

“Also, how is one born with a spoon in their mouth? Is this some witchy ritual I know nothing of?”

“Ugh, of course it’s not, it’s just an expression?—”

He’s laughing at me again, that musical, dark melody erupting from his lips and sending fresh goosebumps down my spine. It’s such an infectious sound that I find myself grinning back up at him, a laugh threatening to come out of my own mouth like laughing with him is the most natural thing in the world.

What if it is?

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