Page 99 of White Horse Black Nights

I snag my bottom lip between my teeth to quelch the rush of blood to my lower half. I feel lightheaded. In the faint light, Basten looks more like a dark god than ever before. And gods, do I want him to take me like one.

This is wrong, I know. I’m engaged to another man. Years of studying Immortal Iyre’s teachings on chastity tell me that I shouldn’t be doing this. But how much loyalty do I owe Rian?

Not a damn drop.

Basten unbuckles his shoulder plates and slides them off one at a time, moving slowly so the metal doesn’t clatter loudly. He unfastens his forearm cuffs. His eyes never leave mine. I feel snared, like a rabbit enchanted by a serpent’s gaze. He stalks toward me slowly, next unbuckling the leather chest plate with the Valvere crest. He sets it on the foot of the bed.

With his shed armor, he stands in only his pants, his sword slung low on his hips, and a different shirt from the one I borrowed so many times that it felt like a second skin. My palms dampen with desire to twist the fabric in my fists. He steps close enough that warmth spills off his body. He places a heavy hand at the base of my throat.

“Say that you felt nothing in that kiss.”

I know what kiss he means. Sitting in Rian’s lap, arms looped around his neck, our tongues sliding together. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of the truth.

“What about the whore?” I challenge. “Did you feel nothing with her?”

His palm slides up to encircle my throat’s column as he leans in with barely contained impatience. “I didn’t fuck any whore. I haven’t had my cock in any woman since you, and I don’t intend to. Little violet, don’t you know I could never want any woman but you?”

My lips fall open to release a soft exclamation. This man is torturing me. He’s going to destroy me. And I’m falling so willingly into the quicksand, begging for him to bury me whole.

“Basten,” I moan softly.

His eyelids fall to half mast. “Say that again. Say my real name.”

I swallow around a knot in my throat, caused by his hand still gently clutching it. “Basten.”

Before I know it, he scoops me off the ground like I weigh nothing. My legs, able to move freely with my gown’s side slits, clutch around his hips instinctively. As soon as our bodies are aligned, a deep, husky exhalation shudders out of him.

He spins me around and presses my back to the wall. The rough stone scratches down my back like fingernails. The beautiful goose down wings snag and break apart. Feathers rain to the floor. He doesn’t seem to care that we’re shredding a costume that must cost more than he makes in a year.

Our lips crash together in a kiss that’s a battle of wills. His mouth is hot. His tongue licks and strokes over my own like it wants to sample every drop of me. The hard edge of his teeth drags against my bottom lip. He sucks the lip into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to send lightning shooting all the way to my toes. I fist my hand in the back of his hair, wrenching his head down to mine. This feels like a game, and both of us are determined to win.

His hands on my ass explore freely like I’m his prize to plunder. The dress’s slits let him touch my most intimate places, guarded only by my satin panties.

“I need these off,” he orders sharply.

I wiggle my hips, and he sets me down. He attacks the broken wings first, unfastening the leather harness around my chest and sliding it down over my shoulders. I fill my lungs to capacity, finally freed. But before I can step out of my panties, he kneels before me like he’s about to worship the gods. Roughly shoving aside the dress’s slitted fabric, he runs his hands along my panties’ front seam. His hot breath cools the already damp fabric. He’s so close to my cleft—he must be drowning in my scent. My cheeks burn to know that he can tell how wet I already am, my body craving him enough to flood my channel in preparation.

He hooks his fingers in the sides of my panties and slowly drags them down my legs, painting his palms along the smooth skin of my thighs and calves until he reaches my feet. Then he leans his forehead against my lower half and groans.

“Your scent. I’ve been thirsting for it. Nothing else will do.”

He stands and undoes his pants, then grabs me by the ass again, shoving the dress’s skirt aside to coax my legs around his hips.

My head falls back against the wall. What is wrong with me? I hate this man . . . but my body doesn’t care. In fact, the hatred only makes me wetter. It’s fucked up, but hatred is a powerful form of connection. For a long time, it was the only language I knew. And Basten is the same way. We were raised on violence, so no wonder we crave it.

We’re both so damn twisted. So broken.

At least we’re broken together.

His eyelids sink lower as he frees himself from his pants and presses his cock to my entrance. He slides the tip up and down my glistening slit as his chest heaves.

“Gods, you’re so fucking wet.”

My hips buck, unable to hold steady. My tongue darts out to dampen my lips, which are dry from panting. But as much as I wiggle, he doesn’t plunge any deeper than a shallow tease.

He demands, “Tell me how you were thinking of me when you were kissing him.”

I bare my teeth as a white-hot flare of anger engulfs me. “I wasn’t. I hate you—I don’t think of you at all.”

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