Page 89 of Warlord's Plaything

I speak almost instinctively.

Before I can think.

Before I can remember all the reasons why this is a mistake.

Right now, I don’t care. I just want the war to end.

Then—he moves.

His mouth crashes against mine, teeth and heat and fucking ruin.

His grip tightens, demanding, consuming.

There’s no hesitation. No slow buildup, no tentative exploration.

We’ve been fighting this for too long.

Now, we just fucking burn.

His hands are rough, greedy, dragging me closer.

I don’t stop him.

I don’t want him to.

I need this. I need to feel something real.

And right now, he’s the only real thing left.

The kiss is messy, desperate.

He tastes like anger and need and something deeper, something darker.

Something that I don’t dare think about.

If I do, I’ll never walk away.

And I’m not sure I want to.

He pulls back, just enough for his breath to mingle with mine.

His eyes are wild, sharp, burning straight through me.

"This changes everything,"he growls.

I grip his face forcefully.

"Good."

His hands are everywhere, tearing at my clothes, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake. My own hands are just as desperate, clawing at his tunic, pulling it off to feel the warmth of his skin against mine.

He pins me to the wall, his body pressing into me, leaving no space between us.

His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I gasp, my head falling back against the stone. His hands slidedown my sides, gripping my hips, lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist.

"Stop me, little warrior," he growls against my skin, his voice ragged. Instead, I tighten my hold on him, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

I don’t.

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