Page 42 of The Moon's Fury
“I don’t,” she breathed, her eyes meeting his as he pressed their foreheads together. She raked her fingers up his muscled back and tangled them in his silky locks. “I can’t imagine it’s much of anything since you’ve deprived me all these months.”
She arched her body into his, and his eyes snapped shut, a deep groan rumbling through him. He sucked in a sharp breath, and when he opened them again, they were dark with desire. He ghosted his lips across her cheeks, then her nose, before finally skimming her lips in the faintest of kisses.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Anything I’ve deprived you, I’ve denied myself tenfold.” He captured her mouth in a searing, punishing kiss. “Do you know how hard it was resisting you?” he murmured against her lips. “Whenever your hand would find my thigh, I knew I had only minutes to leave before you climbed into my lap and drove me mad with desire.”
“What did you do?” she breathed. “When you got back to your room?”
His smirk was made of sin, and she wanted it imprinted on her flesh. “What do you think I did?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Another deep groan rumbled, vibrating through her chest. He pressed his nose to her temple, dragging it down to her neck. “I imagined what you’d look like spread out before me like a feast. What you’d”—he licked a hot stripe along her neck—“taste like.” A loud moan escaped her. “The sounds you’d make.” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. “Your turn. What would you do after I left?”
“I—I would imagine your weight on me.” Layna hitched her leg over his hip, pressing him harder against her. His breathing grew ragged. “How you’d feel … inside me.”
She was too far gone to feel any embarrassment. Pure need crackled through her, heady and wanton. Her hands felt hot against his cool skin, but he didn’t seem to mind.
His hazel eyes swirled with untamed want. He gathered her wrists in one large hand and held them above her head. His other hand gripped her side, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
His voice was rough when he spoke. “If we do this, Layna, you’ll never be free of me. Even if you change your mind about us, I’ll haunt you until the end of your days and leave you with no choice. Except. To be. Mine. I will be your shadow, one you can’t ever escape, not even in the dark. Not even in death, because I’ll follow you there, too. Do you understand?”
“Zarian, Iamyours,” she whispered against his lips. “My heart hasalwaysbeen yours, even when my mind muddled things. But it’s finally caught up now.I am yours.”
She closed the distance between their lips, melding their mouths together until there was no more room for doubt.
They lay panting, tangled in the sheets, skin slick with sweat. She nestled closer against him, head resting on his heart. “I can’t believe you keptthatfrom me for so long,” she teased, tracing the contours of his muscled chest.
He chuckled, his fingers leaving scorching trails along the length of her back. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
“Every day?” she asked with narrowed, playful eyes.
He pressed his lips to hers, slow and languid. “Yes, every day.” Between each kiss, he added, “My. Insatiable. Needy. Love.”
His kisses were so tender, she didn’t object to being called needy—it was true, anyway.
They lay in contented, satiated silence until she murmured, “I’ll need to drinksilpharoontea.”
Zarian hummed in agreement. “Good thing you packed the leaves when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
Layna gaped. “Do you have eyes on the back of your head?” she sputtered. He only laughed, brushing his lips against her forehead.
“I’ll make it for you.”
She sat up, holding the sheets to her chest, and watched shamelessly as he rose and tugged on his discarded sleep trousers. He quickly found the dried leaves in her pack.
Her gaze lingered on the rippling muscles in his back as he reached for a small pot, measuring out water for the tea. Once he lit the wood stove and set the water to boil, he deftly used the hilt of his dagger to crush thesilpharoonleaf into a fine powder.
As she watched his practiced movements, a cold, sinking realization washed over her, sweeping away the haze of pleasure and replacing it with burning jealousy.
“You’ve madesilpharoontea before,” she said flatly. “Often.”
A brief stilling of his hands was the only indication he’d heard. He dropped the fine powder into the pot, dusting off his hands.
“I have,” he said slowly. He was silent while the tea steeped, and her jealousy steeped along with it.
When steam began to rise, wispy, white plumes mocking her, he carefully poured the bright purple liquid into a teacup. Fuming, she watched as he searched the cabinets for something, and when he didn’t find it, he shrugged on his tunic and left the room.
He was back within minutes with a small jar of honey. After scooping a heaping spoonful into the teacup, he finally sat beside her on the bed.
