Page 95 of Prince of Masks
And I can’t risk it, Father finding out that I snuck away to the library, alone, and stole a deadblood book.
That is what Dray will tell him.
So my mouth twists before I draw in a deep inhale, one that swells my chest and presses my body further into Dray’s.
A tender kiss comes in answer, soft, on the corner of my mouth. Then, slowly, he drags his mouth back in place, firm on mine, and plants a pointed kiss.
Then another.
And another.
Chaste, tender kisses.
With each one, I am lured that bit more.
My lips part, more and more, until the warmth of a sweet tongue flicks over mine—
And a sudden heat swells in my belly.
The urge to hide away from him is quick to tense me.
Dray is undeterred, as though my legs aren’t trying to close, squeezing against his hips. It feels as though I’m trying to crush a marble statue with my thighs.
His kisses still come, soft, chaste, a gentle stroke of the tongue over mine, all the while his hand brushes up and down my spine, relaxing me more and more.
My hands flatten on the table, my weight shifting into a lean—as though I am relaxing under his touch.
Dray’s fists untangles from my hair to brush over my cheek.
The sensation tingles, it tickles down me, all the way.
Those fingertips glide over my temple to my hair, then, soft, stroke through the strands,and I feel everything.
My lashes flutter against the sensation, the tension in my muscles easing, and I hate that a whisper of a moan escapes me.
Dray lures me closer, he deepens the kiss that my legs and mouth are open to, my muscles relaxing against.
Witchcraft.
The ache in my core worsens. It teeters on the edge of pain, and it’s taking everything in me, everything, not to jut against the hardness of his crotch pressed firm against me.
Makut.
The moment that word thrums in my mind, my eyes snap open.
His fingertips stroking me, travelling me, my back, my side, my cheek, my hair… His makut is spreading through me, lulling me into him,relaxing me.
The warmth of his touch curves around my back, his hand brushing up my side—and closer to the side of my bra.
I stiffen, instantly.
Those fingertips drag upside my body, inching closer and closer, until the panic spears through me.
“Stop,” I shudder the word, and it trembles into his mouth, and it feels like a cloud dispersing around me. “That’s enough—that’s enough.”
Dray does stop.
His mouth is soft on mine, but his lips don’t move. His hand is buried under my sweater, curved around to my side, the slightest touch away from the edge of my breast—and his hand stills.
