Page 102 of We Are the Match
I let out a breath, one ragged gasp.
She circles me, half a grin on her wild face.
We are still dripping wet, our clothes soaked with sea and blood, but she looks unbothered.
I shiver under her gaze.
“Paris,” I say. I try to make it sound like a command. “Touch me.”
The wicked little half grin splits into a wider, hungrier smile. “Oh, love,” she says, leaning in so her warm breath tickles my ear. “You don’t give the orders here.”
She circles me again, and I shiver.
She trails a finger down my bare arm, brushing water droplets off.
Yes.
Oh, gods,yes.
Yes, that is what I want.
Paris tilts her head to one side. “Helen.” Her voice is a soft growl. “What do you want?”
I feel the rush of wind, and suddenly we are on the rooftop at home, a platter of scones spilled between us.
What do you want?she had asked me,isasking me, though I had not had the courage to say the last time.
“You,” I whisper. “All of you.”
And then she reaches out both hands, gathers fistfuls of my dress at the shoulders, and tears it open. Top to bottom.
And when all the bloody fragments of cloth are on the floor beneath us, she takes my hands in hers. Fiery and gentle. Rough and vulnerable.
“What do you want?” she asks me again.
“You,” I tell her desperately, desperately.
“What do youwant?” she persists. She is asking me for more,demandingmore.
“Everything,” I tell her. “Everything.”
And then I am on the bed beneath her, as I have been longing to be since she first threw me to the ground to protect me from the blast, all those weeks ago on the marble floors of my palace.
She sheds her own clothes with as much care as she used on mine, and then her fingers push between my thighs. “What do you want?” she demands, and then she leans down and bites my lip, so hard I taste blood, so hard Ifeel, and I cannot stop feeling. So that when I answer her, our eyes are forced to meet. So that she sees every inch of me.
“You,” I tell her again. “I wantyou.”
Her fingers trail down, cupping a breast, tracing a path on my stomach, featherlight. And then, harder, the heel of her palm grinding against me between my thighs, her rings cold against my skin. Andthen fingers, lean, strong, deftfingers, good with a blade, and better yet—withme.
“What do you want?” I gasp against her mouth.
“You,” Paris answers roughly. “At my mercy.”
I arch against her fingers, the cold metal of her rings teasing the edge of my clit as I do. “You have me,” I tell her.
“I have seen you unmake buildings and alliances and men,” Paris whispers against my throat, one hand cupping my breast, the grip bruising and beautiful. “But can you unmake a god?” Her breath is hot against my skin. “BecauseIcan.”
Paris strokes the edge of my clit, every bit of movement controlled, intentional, meant to make me come apart.
