Page 146 of Kissed By the Gods
“Love threads the Veil like silver through shadow,
A shimmer between worlds, seen only when the soul is quiet.
It dances where gods fear to tread and binds what fate cannot sever.”
Selencian folk song
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
LEINA
Ryot slideshis hands down my exposed back, his fingers burning my skin as they race down my body and then back up, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch me the most, until he finally grabs my ass and yanks me up against him.
I swing my legs around his waist, locking my feet around his back. My boots collide with the sword at his back. I pull away, just far enough to unfasten the holster that belts at the shoulder, sending the sword crashing to the ground. Then I push myself harder against him, pressing my feet into the small of his back for leverage.
Now I can reach him, eye-to-eye. I scoop my hands into his long hair, knocking strands from his neat ponytail. His moan as I pour myself into our kiss is an aphrodisiac.
He turns to press me against the door, and the feel of his body against mine is a thrill. I slide my hands down his back until I can yank his tunic from his leather trousers, pulling it up in bunches until it’s caught around his neck. He rips his lips from mine as I tug it over his head, and his mouth crashes back down again as the garment drifts to the floor. I race my fingers over his chest and his shoulders, greedy for every little touch.Every blaze of warmth. Every raised scar, every finely honed muscle. Greedy for him.
“Not against the door,” he mutters against my mouth. “Not against the door.” He says it like a litany, like he’s lecturing himself. “Not against the godsdamned door.”
He presses his face into my hair as he spins us around, staggering as he moves toward the bed that dominates the small room. I know it’s not because I’m too heavy—this is a man whom the gods gifted with supernatural strength—he’s drunk on this mad desire, on this frenzy to be close to one another.
Knowing that fills me like the first breath after drowning. And still—it’s more. So much more.
There’s a fire burning inside me, but for the first time it’s not the fury of rage or the rush of adrenaline. This fire burns white-hot and makes me feel immensely powerful and free. I chase each new sensation with wild abandon, pursuing each groan that escapes from his lips with growing determination. I bite his ear lobe, then the crook of his neck. He stumbles again.
His mouth lands on my neck and he returns my small bites with nips of his own. My back arches, pressing my sensitive breasts against his chest and the movement rips a cry from my own throat. It’s a shocking sound—like it came from someone else. And that, too, makes me feel powerful and strong. Like I’m being transformed. Reborn, even.
“How do you always smell of lavender?” he mutters against my temple, pressing a tender kiss against my scar there, before we hit the bed and tumble down in a whisper of slippery silk and unyielding leathers. He rises above me, pressing his hard body into mine, with the soft mattress at my back in the best kind of dichotomy.
“Soap,” I mumble, but it’s hard to focus as his hands slide down my arms, and then down my sides, cupping and tantalizing me through the silk of the dress.
“This fucking dress,” he says, and his eyes are a bit glazed before they go fierce. “Never again,” he says, ripping the silk down the middle. “Never again will they see you like this.”
“Oh, my gods!” I try to shout, to reprimand, but it comes out more like a moan. I try again. “This dress isn’t mine, Ryot!”
He gives a vicious tug, and the silk gives way, leaving me in emerald tatters and my combat boots.
“I don’t give a single fuck about this dress and who it belongs to,” he said. “Except that others saw you in it. That Roran felt the softness of it against your silky skin.” There’s murder in his eyes again, and I bring a hand to his cheek.
I smile up at him. “But only you ripped it off of me,” I tell him. I quirk an eyebrow in reprimand. “And only you will be replacing it.”
He grins, but it’s feral. The satisfied smile of a hunter who finally, at long last, snared his prey.
“Worth it,” he says, giving one last yank on the shreds of fabric, and then I’m completely exposed to him, from my breasts to my hot core.
He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“Oh, sweet Serephelle, you’re not wearing a slip,” he groans out, staring down at me. “I can’t think about you not wearing any underwear downstairs, surrounded by all those vultures. I’ll have to go down and claw all their eyes out.”
“Let’s not do that,” I say on a breathless laugh. “I can think of much better things to do with your hands up here.”
His grin is wicked now.
