Page 102 of Of Rime and Ruin
Our shared intimacy on the hunt meant nothing to him, I’m sure. It was hypothermia-induced sex. Hot, heavy, record-shattering sex.
I sip. The drink is velvety sweet and coats my throat with warmth. It’s like a fucking hug for my taste buds, and I almost forget to be mad at him.
I take another sip. Then another. Foam clings to my upper lip.Shit, that’s good.
Aethan stares, his expression battling to stay neutral. “Do you like it?” he asks.
Only his eyes give him away, sparkling like crystal in the morning sun. I study their twinkling hue as my suspicion thickens. Give a female sweet treats, and she’ll say yes to sex later. Is that what this is about?
Not that I’d mind a little more sex. But I shove the thought aside.
“It’s good. I haven’t tried it before. Is this a regional drink?” I lick my lips, growing smug as his eyes follow the path of my tongue.
That’s right, big guy. I’m onto your games.
His mouth twitches. “We call it hot chocolate.”
“Hmm.” Whatever it’s called, it’s fucking delicious. As I guzzle my way to the bottom of the mug, a subtle wave of feeling brushes against my mind. Scales rise on my neck at the foreign emotions: a flash of pleasure, tinged with possession.
I stare at him, puzzled.
He tears into a sweet roll with his perfect teeth, and his eyes flick in my direction. The strange sensation intensifies into worshipful reverence.
“Did you say something?” I ask.
He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “No.”
Odd.
I pluck several lushfruit from the pile and pop one in my mouth. Citrus juice floods my throat, and my cheeks pucker. Another wave of emotion hits me, this time aggressive admiration. I get the sudden urge to squeeze the lushfruit in my hands and mash it to a fleshy red pulp. To take my tongue and—
I release the fruits, and they fall to the table with a softplunk, plunk, plunk.
Sexual attraction to lushfruit? What the actualfuck?
Aethan sucks in a sharp breath. His jaw flexes three times, eyes on my discarded fruit, and then he looks up, finally meeting my gaze.
Deliberately, I pick up a lushfruit. With gentle fingers, I push it between my lips. His pupils widen, two black saucers in a sea of ice.
The intruding emotions come again. Lust. Animalistic, burning lust. The light blue of his irises darken, navy bleeding into the edges. The longer I stare, the darker his eyes become.
My stomach flutters.I know those eyes.
I clench at the strength of my yearning for the Beast hidden inside him. What would it take to get him to come out and play?
I’m tired of the king’s games. I crave connection, deep and utter synchrony with his mind and emotions. I want the rough touch of his hide, the sharp snick of his claws. The raw power of his thrashing tail. No more tricks. No more barriers. I want intimacy in its purest form—the brush of our souls, intertwined.
I blink, refocusing on Aethan’s face. His brow is furrowed, mouth strained. His eyes are glassy now, and he looks straight through me.
Lust. Frustration. Need.
Are these thoughtshis?
My hands grip the napkin in my lap, balling it tightly. As if a piece of cloth could ground me in my body and keep my soul from lifting. As if I could stop the slow curl of magic in my stomach, rising to his call.
The song buzzes in my throat, through my parting lips, and then I’m singing to the king. A raspy, alto note rings out, resonating deep in my chest.
Aethan goes rigid. His eyes snap into focus. Hands clamp on the table, the tips of his fingers stained dark blue.
