Page 47 of Spearcrest Prince

“That’s Dior! Now you’ve really fucked up.”

She scrambles back, still laughing, out of my reach. She tries to stand up, but I’m quicker than her. Grabbing her plastic cup of mucky water, I toss it at her, paintbrushes and all. She throws her arms up with a cry, but it hits her square on the chest.

I climb to my feet, and we stand on opposite sides of the balcony. She drops her arms and looks down at her drenched hoodie. Then she looks back up at me. We stare at each other.

And then she shatters into laughter.

“Worth it,” she has the audacity to say.

Her laughter is contagious. I try to resist it, but she looks ridiculous in her shorts and drenched hoodie, paint all over her laughing mouth. My face cracks into a smile.

“Fucking nutcase,” I say, shaking my head. “Come on, trésor. Let’s get you cleaned up before you catch pneumonia. I don’t want a dead wife on my hands.”

“I’m not your wife,” she mutters, but she follows me away from the balcony. Her voice is still full of mirth.

“Not yet.”

The words ring true when I say them, which takes me by surprise.

We close the balcony door and sneak down the corridor. It’s not until we get to my door that I realise I completely forgot about my plans to visit Mellie.

Chapter 18

L’Orgueil

Anaïs

Séverin’shandiswarmaround mine as he leads me into his bathroom. It’s strange to see him in this sort of mood. Laughter makes him seem more youthful, more alive. It makes his green eyes sparkle like multi-faceted gems.

In his bathroom, he runs a towel under hot water and washes the paint off my face. He’s surprisingly gentle, and I can’t help but hold my breath while he rubs the towel over my lips. They tingle when he’s done. I lick them quickly, just to moisten them. His eyes follow the movement.

With the messy lines of paint down his face, he looks a little feral. He steps into me, his throat shuddering as he swallows.

“Trésor.” His voice is a sigh.

“Stop calling me that,” I whisper.

“Make me.”

My breath is short. I shouldn’t have come back to his room with him. I take the towel from his hand and rub it across his mouth, wiping away the paint smeared there. Desire unfurls inside me like vines, growing leaves and flowers.

I glance up. Séverin’s eyes are fixed on mine. Green like pale moss, like Japanese jadeite, green like evil spells in fairy tales.

“Don’t make me beg you,” he says suddenly, his voice a rasp.

“I don’t want you to beg me,” I reply.

“What do you want?” he asks, drawing me to him by my waist.

I don’t like lying, but I don’t think I dare tell the truth. So I don’t do either. I throw my arms around his neck, and I kiss him.

He gasps against my mouth. His mouth is soft as a blooming rose under mine. He parts his lips and sweeps his tongue against mine, pouring liquid flames into me, trickling through my stomach and between my legs.

He moves back, dragging me with him. We half-kiss, half-stumble into his bedroom until we almost reach his bed. I place my hands on his chest and push him away. He looks at me with hooded eyes, kiss-drunk and sensual.

“I’m drenched,” I say haltingly. “I should go change.”

“Take it off,” he replies, pressing his lips to my cheek and tugging on the hem of my hoodie.

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