Page 165 of Flirting with Darkness

I chuckled and pulled closer into him, our bodies flush in a way they hadn’t been since he’d held my iron blade to his throat. His brows rose, but he didn’t pull away, and I didn’t feel a need to explain.

This confession, even if it was just a dream—it made sense. It madehimmake sense. No wonder he’d trimmed his hair so neatly and took his time choosing his clothes. Everything he picked out matched perfectly, even our outfits tonight.

At my waist, he stroked the velvet of my gown, making me suddenly aware of the bare expanse of my shoulders and how his fingers might feel there—skin-to-skin. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

He dipped close, the shadow of a frown between his brows as his gaze swept across me. “What’s wrong? You’re covered in goosebumps.”

“Not wrong…” I shook my head, chills rippling through me at the hard set of his body against mine and the way his masculine scent wafted around me.

Could I?ShouldI? Because my body wanted to know how his mouth would fit upon mine, since his chest pressed into me so perfectly.

I bit my lip, drawing his gaze, and that gave me the same hard certainty I’d seen in his eyes when he’d promised he wouldn’t harm me.

This wouldn’t be over-complicated, because married or not, this wasn’t real. I could enjoy my dream.

“Not wrong,” I said, “but maybe right.”

Breaths coming quicker, I danced onto my tiptoes and tilted my head back.

His chest reverberated, though there was no sound save for the music keeping our feet obeying its constant rhythm.

I gripped his shoulder, using it to steady myself so I could reach higher.

Like he understood, a smile flickered on his mouth before he dipped lower, eyes fixed on my lips as though he were a hunter and that his quarry.

I wouldn’t mind being his prey.

17

IN A BALLROOM

He closed in. His breath was hot upon my face, brushing my lips before his warm, firm touch. It wasn’t soft, but I knew he could kiss harder—much, much harder—and that thought, together with the press of kiss after kiss, burned through me.

I forgot about holding his hand in the proper dance pose and slid my palm to his cheek. His stubble—already growing despite his being clean-shaven when we’d left our room—prickled my skin, and I couldn’t help but hum my pleasure into our next kiss.

My husband could be a gentle beast, but I wasn’t sure I wanted gentle.

Something in my body language must’ve given my wish away, because his other hand closed around my back, and he pressed me against his body just as his mouth opened against my lips, which parted at his command.

His tongue swept in, assured as it swiped mine, and his lips crushed rather than explored as they had before.

Then my feet were no longer on the floor, and there was nothing soft left.

I looped my arms around his neck, seeking more, encouraging the hard command of his mouth on mine. I opened to take his tongue deeper, to invite his invasion, the cut and thrust like this was a sword fight that I wanted to lose. There were whimpers—they were mine—and a low rumble of approval or maybe pleasure in his chest.

I gave as good as I got. I met his swipes. I nibbled his lip. I ran my tongue along the hard length of his canines as I clung to him for dear life.

Thank the gods I’d chosen this dress, because my skin burned even with my shoulders and arms uncovered. Every breath seared as I drew them against his lips, not wanting to break from the devastating force of his kisses even for something as vital as air.

Because, good gods, somehow these determined kisses, the prick of his claws on my back, the unyielding planes of his body flush against mine… they were vital, too.

Eventually we broke apart. It might have been minutes later or years. Was this how mortals lost track of time in faerie, caught up in fae kisses that tasted of mint and honeyed whisky?

We’d come to a stop, but the dancers flowed around us, like water past a stone. His chest heaved against mine as his gaze flicked between my eyes. One hand slid up my back and when his fingertips reached the top of my dress and then bare skin, I shivered and pressed all the tighter against him.

Even with the surreal elements—the shift in time to evening, the house being different, the presence of all these people, and the inexplicable knowledge we had a ball to attend—his touch, his body, the softness of his hair as I toyed with loose strands at the back of his neck… It made it easy to forget this was a dream.

He huffed, and the corner of his mouth curled. “This is much better than my usual dreams.”

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