Page 55 of King Among the Dead

He took the last drag and flicked the butt into the fire. “He’s a banker. Was. His wife is the second-cousin of one of Castor’s generals, and when he found that out, he used the connection to force his way up from janitor to CFO. Dumb as a rock. A cheater – obviously.” He took up the cigarette packet and tapped it absently against the table. “He’s been squeezing other banks out of business. Stealing regular people’s money to fuel his heavensent habit.”

She nodded. “And now he’s dead and can’t do that anymore.”

“There’ll be another. There always is.” His hand tightened, packet crumpling, and he bared his teeth in a rare grimace.

“Buthe’sgone,” she said, patiently. “And that feels good, doesn’t it?”

“God, yes.” A breathless admission.

He dropped the cigarettes, drained his glass, and gripped the arms of his chair. Hard. Knuckles white. Closed his eyes, wisps of hair dancing against his temples as he fought the inner trembling that wracked him – fought it so hard. And for what? Was this self-loathing? Self-consciousness?

Whatever it was, Rose was tired of it.

She took a bracing swallow of her drink, set it aside, and got to her feet.

His eyes snapped open.

She held up a hand.Stay. And crossed the distance between their chairs.

He tipped his head back, gaze fixed on her, and looked oddly vulnerable like that, even if she could see the tendons standing out in his neck and the backs of his hands; could see the coiled strength, even through his black sweater.

“Rose,” he said, like a warning.

One she didn’t heed. She straddled his legs, and settled in his lap. Rested a hand on his chest, over his tripping pulse, and tucked a bit of hair behind his ear with the other. Leaned in close enough to watch his pupils blow out, eating up the gold-brown of his irises. She could feel him trembling beneath her, straining. Could hear the quick patter of his breath through his parted lips.

“Beck,” she said, “it’s okay.” And she leaned in and kissed him.

It was careful, and awkward, because she’d never done this before. She had no skills to draw upon; she had ideas, thanks to all her reading, but felt fumbling and young when she imagined executing any of them herself. She didn’t want to fumble; she wanted Beck to be her teacher in this, the way he’d been her teacher in everything. Wanted him to finally, finally let go of the chokehold he had on his desires and show them to her, so they could share this, too.

How could they kill together, and then part chastely and sleep apart? The idea was so ludicrous it pained her.

Please, she thought, touching the tip of her tongue to his lower lip, a gentle press.Beck, please…

His lips parted on a deep gasp – and then he was kissing her back.

She’d initiated this, but it was a shock: the sudden heat of his tongue pushing past her lips, the crush of his lips against hers. He tasted of smoke and whiskey, and like everything she’d ever wanted. She let out her own gasp, and he swallowed it; tilted his head and slanted his mouth hotly over hers.

He cupped the back of her head in both hands, fingers plucking at the top of her plait, pulling hairs loose. Held her still for the quietly devastating assault of his kiss: deep, and wet, and drugging, lips clasping again and again, his tongue tracing her teeth, running along the ridges of her palate. She’d read about so many kisses, but none of it had prepared her for the way her neck would go weak, and her breath would stutter in her lungs. She clutched the front of his sweater, and let herself fall, more than confident he would catch her.

When he pulled back with one last, clinging kiss, she couldn’t swallow her little whine of protest.No!she thought, heart pounding.No, don’t turn awaynow!

But then she saw his expression, and knew he wasn’t turning away. No, far from that. His eyes had gone liquid and dark with an unmistakable arousal; his gaze traveled down and then up her face, lingering on her lips in avid, hungry appraisal. He liked what he saw, if the way he bit his lip was any judge.

He took her braid in one hand, and slid down the length of it; found the elastic that secured the end and pulled it free. His gaze stayed fixed on hers as he unraveled the plait with careful, but shaking fingers; she could hear him breathing, quick little draws that lifted his chest beneath her hands.

This was the moment in the books she read when the hero told the heroine how beautiful she was, how much he desired her. But Rose could see that for herself, and she didn’t need Back to say it.

When her hair was loose, he fanned it across her shoulders, drawing his fingers through the silken lengths again and again, the whisper of sound deafening in her ears, even drowning out the pop and crackle of the fire. He gathered it up in his hands, coiled it around his palms and knuckles. “Rosie,” he breathed, and reeled her back in for more kisses.

Slower, at first, plucking at her lips with his own. Then pressing deep, delving with his tongue, firm pressure that opened her jaw wider. Then a gentling, a half-retreat. It was like dancing – like sparring. He was showing her – teaching, just as she’d hope, and her heart soared. She leaned in to him, pliant. But then his thumb stroked her cheek, urging her closer, and she slipped her tongue between his lips, taking as he’d taken, and he hummed an approving sound that went all the way down to her toes and curled hot and heavy in her belly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw. In the tender hollow below her ear. He opened his mouth against her throat, tasting her pulse point with the flat of his tongue; giving her the faintest scrape of teeth. The prick of his sharp canines: always seen, now felt.

His hands slid down her arms, and shifted to her waist. They were restless; sweeping up and down, palms pressing to the small of her back, and to her stomach; fingertips playing with the hem of her sweater as he sucked a bruise against her neck. It was like he wanted to touch all of her all at once; like he wanted to mark her, so he could look at her, and know that he’d touched her, that this moment had been real.

No going back, she thought, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling his bun loose; shivering, leaning into his touch. She tilted her head to give him more access – whatever he wanted, wherever he needed to be.

He hooked his fingers in the neck of her sweater and pulled it down her shoulder – a thread snapped, and she didn’t care – mouth chasing down to the new patch of skin he’d exposed, biting and sucking at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

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