Page 44 of Kiss the Fae

Who cares? I don’t, and I’m not about to change my mind, and neither is he. It’s more productive to disgust each other.

Cerulean wrinkles his nose like a compulsive snob, as though blaming me for demoting him to the roles of housekeeper and nurse. “Wounds are unattractive, as are tattered garments. I can’t say you mortals excel at aesthetics, and I’ll never praise your fragile constitution, but—” he holds up a finger, “—I’ll not having my latest acquisition looking deplorable after two days. I like my toys shiny before I break them again.”

Surprise, surprise. That’s not far off the mark from what Moth had said.

I retort, “Must be a Fae fetish. I should have known that’s why you got your hands dirty.”

“Spare me the credit,” he scoffs. “It’s offensive to us both. What did you anticipate, pet? A change of heart?”

“Nah. That would require having a heart.”

“I never claimed to use my bare hands. A meager flick of magic swabbed your injuries and disinfected those wretched scraps you consider clothing. Chasing ragdolls is beneath me. Call it maintenance before I send you on your merry, messy, mutinous way. Also, it’s polite.”

“Polite? Are you fucking joking?”

He leans down, his breath tapping my lips. “Probably, conceivably, unlikely.”

I hate that my mouth shivers from the contact. I hate that I want to believe him. And I hate even more that I don’t.

The flames pop and sizzle from the fireplace. Heat strokes up my bare calves.

Otherwise, it’s dark in here, the sconce having burned itself out before I woke up. A nighttime sheen leaks through the curtains and swims across the blanket tangled around us.

Fables. I’m scantily dressed and splayed beneath a Fae, his heart thumping against mine.

I’m glad his kind don’t fancy gratitude, since the last thing I feel like doing is thanking him. He’s the reason I resemble a pincushion to begin with. Still, they like bargains, and they mean to be repaid. “What do you want?”

“A simple inspection of your whip will suffice.”

“Simple look, my titties.”

“I needn’t remind you about Faeries and fibbing. We have a taste for trinkets. What do you think I was doing while you pretended to be asleep?”

I should probably flush, but I don’t care if he was onto me. “You could have snatched my whip in a blink. There was no need to get sneaky.”

“Oh, but I love being sneaky. Notwithstanding, I wanted to see what you’d do. Lastly, if I’m not mistaken, using my power would have branded me as lazy. Am I quoting you correctly?”

“Since when does a Fae care what alowlyhuman thinks?”

“You forgotuninspiringandunremarkable.”

“Stealing my whip wouldn’t exactly even the playing field.”

“As I said, I only wanted a closer look.”

Well, he can’t get any closer than this. His waist spans my pelvis, my body cradling his. Tension fixes us in place, ankles and elbows and ribs knocking together.

Cerulean scans the whip strung across my wrists, the cord trapping me against the mattress. Satisfied, he shifts. Pegging both of my hands in one grip, his free digits drag the whip south, the handle’s tip scraping along my cheekbone, down my neck to the basin of my collarbones, and skimming the center of my chest, where my pulse pounds.

From there, the handle circles my navel. I gulp, fighting the urge to squirm away or wriggle nearer. I usually dominate this kind of thing. Then again, I usually don’t hate my lovers.

Yet some weak place in the pit of my stomach flutters, as if this should be natural, as if it’s a long time coming. Cerulean absorbs my reaction, his gaze intent and hunting for a specific response, so committed to the act that it’s intimidating. But I can’t look away, and I’m not sure I want to, and I detest him even more for that.

Whatever he sees causes his fingers to choke my weapon. “What an accessory, this whip,” he compliments, his molten accent pouring into the room. “When we met, I underestimated its appeal. Tell me, mortal. Have you ever tied a man up with it? Have you ever held a man prisoner while fucking him into a stupor?”

Of course, I have. “You done lying on top of me?”

A slow grin wreaths across his face, neither repulsed, nor smitten. He wants me to quail.

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