Page 81 of Shadows of Stardust

I should, shouldn’t I?

I should keep my goddamn head on straight, keep some distance. Remember all of this is an act, just an act. There’s no reason at all I should be considering this.

But… fuck. Somewhere between hating him and trusting him and fighting with him and fake kissing him, all my wires got crossed.

Because with a big, muscled, handsome Revexoran warrior between my thighs, hands on my ass, looking at me with all those galaxies in his eyes swirling more chaotically than they ever have before, I can’t remember the reasons this is a mistake.

The only thing I can remember is how I’ve always burned around him.

And fine, maybe some of that burning was fury and frustration, but somehow that only feeds my deranged need to pull him closer, to wage this new battle with him and see who comes out victorious.

I bury my hands in his hair and grip tight, meeting his eye.

A low rumble breaks in the back of Zan’s throat, one that almost sounds pained as he waits for me to answer. “Tell me to stop, Roslyn.”

“I… can’t.”

Another rumble, muscles bunching and tensing, hands flexing like he’s just as close to losing whatever scrap of control he’s still holding onto as I am.

“Can’t, or don’t want to?”

The question is low, urgent, asked against my overheated skin as he leans in and runs his lips over my throat, teeth dragging lightly and sending sparks shooting all the way through me.

I tip my head back to give him better access, tug at his hair to bring him even closer, silently begging, pleading, not even remotely capable of putting into words everything I want him to—

“Roslyn.” He pulls back, breathing hard. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I gasp. “Fuck, Zan, I want this. I want you to—”

Zan’s kissing has definitely gotten better.

With a hand fisted into what’s left of the braid I styled my hair into tonight and his other arm banded under my ass to keep me firmly held against him, Zan kisses me hard, tongue stroking into me and a deep, satisfied rumble kicking up in his chest. Like he’s taken each and every kiss, each touch, every time he’s let me lead and used it as a training session.

There’s nothing hesitant in his kiss, nothing uncertain, nothing fumbling or awkward as he goes to work unravelling me completely.

It’s good, so fucking good, good enough that I don’t notice him moving us across the room until my ass lands on the hard stone counter top of the kitchen island.

Even then, he doesn’t relent. Not for a single damn second.

And neither do I.

It’s different, this kiss. Just like he said, there are no cameras here, no one we have to perform for. But there’s still something so achingly familiar in the push and pull, in the unrelenting need to get one up, to best each other, to win.

Only this time, it doesn’t matter at all who’s going to come out victorious.

Because with Zan’s lips slanted hard and demanding against mine, the slow, sensual stroke of his tongue, the press of his hard body between my legs and the harsh, insistent, oh-so-gratifying growls of pleasure breaking in the back of his throat, I couldn’t give a shit.

There’s no battle to fight. No war to wage. Nothing but the bone-deep need formore.

Breaking the kiss, I tug hard on his hair, tipping his head back so his neck is exposed. I kiss and suck and bite my way to the hollow of his throat, hands making quick work of the first few buttons on his shirt.

Zan seems to get the hint as he reaches back between his shoulder blades, yanks it off, and tosses it to the floor.

It puts him on full display. All those muscles. The plated ridges running down his shoulders and arms, molded to his pecs and abdomen like living armor. I don’t know where to look first, where to touch first, and I don’t get the chance to decide as Zan crowds back into me. He tugs me right to the edge of the counter, spreading my thighs wide around his hips.

And then his hands are at my dress

The flowy, cream-colored garment has short sleeves that cover my scars and tattoos, and a row of buttons running all the way down the front.

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