Page 172 of Malicent
I ground myself in other sensations, the texture of his shirt beneath my fingertips, the shimmer of swirling gowns. Finding anything to focus on but him.
I refuse to meet his eyes, the same argent eyes I’ve been avoiding since our ride here. Since that night.
Feeding from him changed something. I’ve kept my distance ever since, afraid that locking eyes with him might snap the thread I’m barely hanging on to.
I remember the way he held me, the way he forced my eyes to stay on his as he guided my hand between my thighs.
Bloodlust or not, it still haunts me. Still burns under my skin.
And if the hunger had gone deeper, if the Nightmother had stirred harder, I would’ve torn his heart out and devoured it.
“A learned skill, I suppose. I’m more of a hunter myself. Knowing a creature gives you an upper hand.” He dips me sharply. One hand supports my back while the other slides boldly to my thigh, pulling it toward him. My hair brushes the floor, my chest tenses with the strain, and my neck locks as I meet his silver gaze.
“If this curse has possessive traits, it might be a hellion. What emotions draw them out?”
The answer’s old knowledge. “Lust and pain.”
“Exactly.” He pulls me upright, returning us to our former stance. “Like a shark smelling blood. Shall we lure them out?”
He lifts my hand toward his mouth, slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t. Not yet. I don’t flinch as his teeth graze the inside of my wrist. I prepare for the bruising hot pain his teeth will cause. His tongue follows the nip, smoothing it. Then he presses a soft kiss.
Surprise fills me when he doesn’t take the chance to inflict pain on me. I tense and try to pull away, but his grip tightens, and his fingers thread with mine. He bites gently at my bicep in warning. A languid kiss follows, and he trails more up to my shoulder, lingering at the hollow of my neck, where his hot breath ghosts over my skin. This is dangerous. Baiting the hellion out and Cage. The danger only surges my adrenaline, elating me.
His voice is low and edged with hunger. “I can see your pulse thrumming in your neck.”
His hand slides lower, gripping a handful of my ass. The sudden pressure makes my breath hitch. Lust. not pain. He’s leaning into it hard. And I am being dragged down with him.
He dips back into my throat, nuzzling a silent demand for more. For the sake of this trap, I tilt my head, obliging him. This time, his mouth isn’t gentle. His tongue drags along my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
When he reaches the pulsing curve beneath my jaw, he sucks, slowly and firmly. My breath quickens, nipples tightening beneath the velvet red of my gown.
The room around us becomes a haze of bright colors, laughter and music. Bodies near us spin and dip, too caught up in themselves to pay attention to us.
Stray hairs cling to my flushed cheeks as he trails kisses toward the hollow of my throat. His hand on my hip shifts, grinding me into him, letting me feeleveryinch of how much I affect him. I almost revel in the moment.
I arch back, letting my chest press higher till the curve of my breasts rises over the neckline. I watch as he pauses. His grip tightens. The silver in his eyes darken with a deep and guttural urge that mirrors my own.
“Just a trap, my little witch.” His voice is rough like gravel.
“Just a trap,” I echo, but my voice betrays me. It’s low, sultry. And when our eyes meet, something cracks.
He releases my hand and guides his fingers up my arm, curling them into the base of my neck. My skin prickles under his touch. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes.
His jaw tenses, and he hesitates before leaning in close, our lips separated only by the breadth of an inch.
“You make me wonder who the trap is really set for.” His tone darkens. A deep rumbling timbre rolls through his every word. “I hate this gown.”
His sudden shift in demeanor hardens my posture. “Gee, thanks. Way to kill the trap.” I roll my eyes sassily, but the heat in my veins doesn’t cool.
“You mistake my words for jest, my little witch.” His voice dips low. “Then again, your kind always did struggle to discern truth from mockery.”
His hand drags slowly from the nape of my neck up my jaw with a slow reverence, like he’s memorizing the outline of my features for a drawing he can perfect. He grips my chin gently but firmly, his lips brushing over mine with each word.
“I hate this gown on you. I hate most gowns on you. I’d prefer them off you, on the floor.”
He lets the implication settle before he pulls away. My head spins between the insults and the flirting. Am I becoming some fun game to him? Or does it bother him just as much that he likes his skin against mine?
