Page 82 of The Second Death of Locke
She gripped Eron’s chin in her hand. “Please don’t disgrace me,” she begged, before she kissed him on the cheek.
“I wouldn’tdare.”
“Be safe,” Ola slurred gravely as Grey stepped back to Kier’s side. “In all ways that apply.”
“Still none of your business,” Kier said cheerfully. “But I will take your suggestion to heart.”
They slipped into the wet chill of the night, then into one of the dozens of carriages that waited outside. Kier gave the driver the name of the inn. They sat opposite one another, legs alternating, as they lurched into motion. Grey wanted very badly to grab him by his coat and pull him toward her, but they were in a windowed carriage, and perhaps she just wanted to look at him a little longer. His face mirrored the emotion she felt through the tether, something like awe and wonder and reluctant impatience. Her blood thrummed hot in her cheeks, in her stomach; her whole body felt electric and restless.
When they reached the inn, Grey stumbled out, feeling drunk on something other than alcohol. She kept her composure all the way up to their room, where her fingers fumbled with the key until Kier took it and slid it home.
Inside, door locked behind them, they regarded one another.
“So,” he said, carefully laying the key on top of the wardrobe.
“So,” she said, watching his every move.
They stared at each other. She didn’t understand this shyness (hands in his intestines, etc.), but now that they were alone, she could not shake it. She inhaled sharply, unsteadily when he leaned forward to take her hand. He brought it to his lips, brushed a kiss on her knuckles.
“Is this more how you imagined it?” she asked.
Kier laughed. “Grey, you’re a treasure beyond any imagining.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Captain Seward,” she said, because if shelet herself believe him, there would be no recovery. “I still have all my clothes on.” He moved to pull her closer, but she shook her head. “Stand still.”
She brought her hands to his jacket, sliding under, pushing it over his shoulders. Grey leaned in to kiss that soft space at the edge of his jaw, the one she’d been so fixated on earlier, relishing his sharp inhalation. She pulled his jacket off and tossed it behind her, onto the bed.
“Grey,” he started. His hands went to her back, fumbling for the laces of her dress.
“Mm, no.” She pushed them away. She was dedicated to enjoying this, and she’d been imagining getting Kier’s body under her hands for years. She would not be deprived of the joy of tormenting him.
He stood still, his breathing erratic, as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. She ran her fingers along the obsidian of the moon. He watched her hungrily, hands clenched at his sides—he wanted to touch her, she knew, but even more, he wanted her to have her way.
She slid off his shirt, and the muscles of his stomach tensed as her hands skimmed over him. She kissed the line of his collarbone, flicking her tongue over the hollow of his throat, relishing the sound he made. Every single one of their sparring matches was written into his dense muscle; every battle showed on his skin. She swallowed hard, remembering all of them, a thousand recollections of his blood, his magic and her power, which had carved him from the boy she’d once longed for into the man she had now, under her hands.
“Do I get a turn?” he asked, amused, as she trailed her hands over the planes of his chest, the trail of fine dark hair from his navel, the scars on his abdomen.
“If you’re good,” she said, skimming a thumb over his nipple, then drawing his mouth to hers to swallow his answering gasp. What a treasured thing it was, to hear that noise from him—to know it belonged to her and her alone.
“Grey,” he murmured against her lips.
She bit his bottom lip. “Your turn,” she allowed.
Kier did not waste his time as he pulled her flush against him. He was insistent, undoing the laces of her dress with record speed,pushing it off her shoulders to pool at her feet. She tangled one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, half for balance. Her knees were unstable with the maddening slide of his tongue against hers.
He was still wearing too many clothes, which was a disaster, so her fingers went to the laces of his trousers as he wrestled her out of her chemise, breaking the kiss with a laugh. Then he was looking at her again, and the pure adoration on his face knocked the wind right out of her.
She fought the instinct to cover herself, keeping her shoulders square, her hands on his shoulders. He looked at her like he hadn’t seen her skin a thousand times, every single day, in a million contexts. Like all of this was new—like he didn’t know the shape of the scar on her ribs or the lines of her body. His hand cupped her breast reverently, one thumb sweeping back and forth over her until she ached with tension.
This time when she kissed him there was a new desperation. He stumbled, pushing her toward the window—thankfully he’d drawn the curtains before they left, or else those in the courtyard would be treated to a show—and boosted her so she was sitting on the wide windowsill, her back pressed to the fabric of the curtains. He rocked against her, still too many layers between them, but she felt him hard against her, and she groaned into his mouth.
He paused, pulling back just enough so he could see her, cupping her face with his hand. “Is this what you want?”
She dragged his head down so she could nip at his ear. “This is theonlything I want.”
He laughed, the sound warm and relieved. He hesitated for a second. As she started to ask if he was okay, he went for her pack. She watched him rummage for her healer’s kit, then squint at the labels. He shook a measure of contraceptive herbs into his palm and took them with water, wincing at the bitter taste. She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back, pausing to bite at his collarbone. “Thanks.”
“Ola reminded me,” he said, running his hands up her back in a way that made her shiver.
