Page 178 of Flirting with Darkness

I gripped the chair’s arms and bent forward, seeking his lips again. “Faolán.” It was a prayer, a plea, a wish that he would do everything to me that he knew how.

Part of me knew this was all a reaction to the heightened circumstances of this house—being trapped together, the frightening shared dreams, whatever I had seen in the bath—but I enjoyed him. His presence, his taciturn conversation, his companionable quiet. The way he pushed me when we trained. The fact he’d protected me from the werewolf pack and from the sapphire-eyed woman at the theatre below the ballroom. The way he looked; the way his body moved. It all pleased me.

And that was nothing to do with this place. It was all him.

Maybe that did complicate things.

But maybe I didn’t care right now.

Before I reached him, he placed a clawed finger on my lips, the tip tickling my cupid’s bow, and pressed me back into my seat with a slight shake of his head. Then that claw trailed down over my chin, my throat, my chest, dragging on my flesh just enough that it sent shards of sensation through every inch but didn’t break the skin.

By the time he reached my nipple, I was trembling.

He circled once, twice, then ran the pad of his finger over that aching tip.

I had no shame, no pride, nothing, as I arched with a shuddering moan.

It was the tiniest thimble of water on the fire raging through me—the tease of relief.

He gave a hum that sounded like approval before bending and closing his mouth over that same spot. I squeezed my eyes shut but the fire’s sparks still danced behind my eyelids as he enveloped my nipple in hot, wet heat. The flick of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth. The moment of suction before he went right back to the start.

It killed me. I was a melted mess writhing against the chair’s back, tangling my fingers into his hair, holding him to me, because if he stopped, I might break something.

Not stopping his torment, he chuckled onto my nipple, the vibrations of that making me lurch, before he tugged open the other side of my silk robe.

Eventually, he pulled away and looked up at me. Seeing him peer up through his lashes, the gesture coy and so alien considering he was usually above me, made my head spin.

When he coupled it with a grin that flashed his teeth—an unbridled grin, not his usual half-smile—I knew I was done for.

“Rose.” He shook his head, gaze ravaging me in places I wish his touch would. “I think you already know you’re beautiful… stunning, when we go to those balls and parties.” The grin faded and his throat bobbed. “But I like you best like this.” He yanked the tie of my robe undone and slid the sides apart below my waist. “No, actually, likethis.”

His teeth flashed in something more feral than a grin as his gaze dipped to the auburn hair between my legs. Thumbs grazing down the inside of my thighs, he splayed me open.

He had to see my wetness glinting in the flickering candlelight—the same light that caught in the gold motes of his eyes. He had to see how much Iwanted,the sheer state he’d built me to with that wonderful mouth of his. He had to see it all.

And I? I wanted him to. I arched into his gaze and spread my legs as far as I could, pressing against the velvet arms of the chair.

“Mm.” As though approving and goading me on, he dug his claws into my flesh, not quite breaking the skin, but lighting my nerves with glorious sensation. “Yes.” The breath of the word brushed my skin, doing nothing to cool my unbearable heat. “Exactly like this.”

Then he bent to my aching centre and licked.

I cried out. Loud.

Because his tongue was molten and firm and surprisingly rough. It dipped into every groove and fold and finished on my throbbing clit, which he ran his full length along, lifting me towards a trembling peak.

With just one swipe of his tongue.

Oh, dear gods, I was well and truly done for.

He did it again, and I screamed.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, barely able to get words out between my panted breaths. I gripped his hair in case he hadn’t got the message, but he didn’t fight my grip in the slightest—if anything, he buried his head deeper between my thighs.

When my eyelids fluttered open, I gasped. Not because of him, but because the room around us bristled with candlesticks, the poker from the fire, the pointed end of a tail comb, all of them floating mid-air, all of them pointed at him.

Oblivious or uncaring, he continued his assault on my pussy.

“House,” I said as I realised. My scream; maybe it thought he was hurting me. But—I jolted as his tongue dipped inside me—but this was anything but pain. “Not… not bad…”

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