Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
His mouth is on mine as soon as we enter.
The cottage door has barely clicked shut behind us when Mal crowds me against it, one hand braced on the wood beside my head, the other tangled in my hair.
He kisses me like he’s been holding back for years, not days—deep and thorough and devastatingly skilled.
So much for sleep, I think hazily.
“I know,” he murmurs against my lips, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy, “you have a class in three hours.”
“Two and a half now.”
“Even worse.” His teeth catch my lower lip, tugging gently. “I should go. Let you rest. Be responsible.”
“You probably should.”
Neither of us moves.
The morning light filters through my curtains, casting everything in soft gold. I can see the fatigue around his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders from a night spent sitting on a hardwood floor. He looks rumpled and imperfect and absolutely beautiful.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admit.
Something shifts in his expression. The playful mask he wears so effortlessly slips, revealing something rawer underneath. Something hungry and hopeful and terrifyingly vulnerable.
“Say that again.”
“I don’t want you to go.” My hands find his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I want you to stay. I want—” The words catch in my throat, but I force them out anyway. “I want you, Mal. All of you. No more walls.”
He goes very still.
“Isadora.” His voice is rough. “If we do this—if I stay—I need you to understand that I won’t be able to hold back.
I’ve been trying. Trying to give you space, trying to let you set the pace.
But after tonight, after everything you shared.
..” His forehead presses against mine. “I don’t have that kind of control left. ”
“Good.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Then show me.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me with those dark eyes that flicker crimson at the edges, searching for doubt or hesitation or any sign that I don’t mean exactly what I’m saying.
He won’t find it.
“Last chance,” he whispers. “Once I start, I won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not with you.”
I answer by pulling his mouth back to mine.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. One moment my feet are on the ground, the next my legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s carrying me into the bedroom with confident strides.
The bed is unmade from this morning, the rumpled sheets still bearing the impression of my restless sleep.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be mortified by the mess.
Now, I couldn’t care less.
He lays me down on the mattress with surprising gentleness, then stands back to look at me. His gaze travels slowly from my face to my toes and back again, and I feel it like a physical touch—warm and thorough and appreciative.
“You’re still dressed,” I point out.
“So are you.”
“That seems like a problem we should solve.”
His lips curve into that crooked smile I’ve grown to love. “Ladies first.”
I sit up and reach for the hem of my tank top, but his hands are there before mine, his fingers brushing my sides as he peels the fabric up and over my head. The cool morning air hits my skin, raising goosebumps, and I’m suddenly very aware of how exposed I am.
Not just physically. Emotionally. After everything I shared tonight—all the fears and wounds and ugly truths I’ve kept hidden for years—there’s nowhere left to hide.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word sounds like reverence.
“I’m covered in emotional baggage and floor dust.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, more firmly this time. His hands skim down my arms, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. “Stop deflecting.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
“I noticed.” He leans down to press a kiss to my shoulder. “Find a new one.”
“Any suggestions?”
“A few.”
His mouth travels along my collarbone, nipping and soothing in turns.
I arch into the contact, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and working them open with more haste than finesse.
Beneath the expensive fabric, his chest is warm and solid, and I spread my palms against it just to feel his heart beating under my hands. Fast. Faster than I expected.
He’s as affected by this as I am.
The realization emboldens me. I push the shirt off his shoulders, running my nails lightly down his spine, and am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.
“Careful,” he warns.
“Or what?”
His answering smile is all teeth.
The next few minutes are a blur of shed clothing and roaming hands and kisses that grow increasingly urgent. He explores my body like he’s mapping uncharted territory, finding sensitive spots I didn’t know I had and exploiting them with devastating precision.
When his mouth closes over one breast, I gasp and arch into him. When his hand slides between my thighs, I nearly come off the bed entirely.
“Easy.” His voice is rough against my skin. “We have time.”
“Do we? Children’s class, remember?”
“Forget the class.”
“I never—oh.” His fingers curl just right, and every thought in my head dissolves into static. “Mal.”
“There she is.” He sounds insufferably pleased. “That’s the sound I’ve been wanting to hear.”
“Arrogant.”
“Accurate.” Another curl of his fingers, another wave of sensation that leaves me gasping. “You’re so responsive. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No.”
“Their loss.” He shifts, positioning himself between my legs, and for a moment, we both go still. His eyes meet mine—dark and hungry and impossibly tender. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this.”
“Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.” My hands cup his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “I want you, Mal. Not the deal-maker or the chaos demon or the charming facade. Just you. The real you.”
Something flickers in his expression—that same raw vulnerability I glimpsed earlier.
“Then you’ll have me,” he says quietly. “All of me. No glamours. No pretense.”
He means it literally, I realize, as the air around him seems to shimmer. The illusion that’s been hiding his true form dissolves like morning mist, revealing what lies beneath.
Small black horns curve from his temples, elegant spirals that gleam faintly in the golden light.
His eyes shift fully to crimson, no longer flickering but burning steadily like twin flames.
When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of sharper teeth, and something dark and sinuous moves behind him—a tail, I realize with distant fascination. He has a tail.
“This is me.” His voice carries a tremor I’ve never heard before. “This is what I really am.”
I reach up and trace one horn with curious fingers.
“Finally,” I say. “No more secrets.”
He shatters.
There’s nothing gentle about the first time. It’s all urgency and desperation and years of loneliness colliding with unexpected connection. Then he’s between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pauses, searching my face.
“Isadora.”
“Yes.”
He pushes in slowly, so slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. There’s a moment of discomfort, a sharp sting, and then he’s fully seated inside me and it’s—
“Perfect,” I breathe.
His head drops to my shoulder, and I feel the tension in his entire body, the way he’s holding back.
“Move,” I tell him. “Please move.”
He does, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that builds gradually, each stroke deeper than the last. He moves inside me like he’s trying to memorize the feeling, like he’s afraid this will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling, and every thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through me.
“More,” I gasp. “Please.”
“Anything.” His hips snap forward harder. “Anything you want.”
Everything, I think. I want everything.
His tail wraps around my thigh, adding another point of contact that feels strangely intimate. His hands are everywhere, stroking and gripping and worshipping, and when his mouth finds mine again, the kiss tastes like desperation and devotion in equal measure.
I’ve never felt so consumed. So wanted.
The orgasm builds slowly, then crashes over me all at once. I cry out against his lips, my nails digging into his shoulders, and feel him shudder in response.
“Again,” he growls. “I want to feel you again.”
Before I can respond, he shifts angles, and the new position sends sparks shooting up my spine. His thumb finds my clit, circling with the perfect pressure, and impossibly, I feel myself climbing again.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough velvet in my ear. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The second climax is even more intense than the first. I’m distantly aware of making sounds I’ve never made before—wordless cries and broken moans that would embarrass me if I could think clearly enough to care.
He drinks them in like wine, his own control finally fracturing as he finds his release.
For a long moment afterward, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, tangled and sweaty and utterly spent.
“That was...” I trail off, unable to find adequate words.
“Indeed.” He sounds as wrecked as I feel. “Give me five minutes. I want to do it again.”
“Five minutes? That’s ambitious.”
“Three hundred years of practice.”
I laugh—a genuine, joyful sound that surprises me. “Is that what you’ve been doing for three centuries? Honing your bedroom skills?”
“Among other things.” He lifts his head to look at me, and the softness in his crimson eyes makes my heart clench. “Though I should mention—that was considerably better than any other time.”
“Flatterer.”
“No. Honesty.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You undid me, Isadora. Completely and thoroughly undid me.”
“Good. That was the goal.”
“Was it?”