Chapter 55
I recognize the song. It’s one that my aunt would sometimes sing under her breath, which she didn’t do often, but she did when scrubbing the floors. It’s about the consequences of sleepwalking, of dreaming right down through to your feet.
The cast of dreams, to home it seems
Wander the steps of mind’s sight
Lure what may, from bed you stray
Beware, the tread of the night
The tune is pretty, entrancing in a way that music can be when the person playing it has the heart to carry the notes. But it holds no snare of control. No net of lure. Right now, Varrik plays music without magic, captivating in an entirely different manner.
I find my heart aching as I listen, breathing in every sound, basking in his mastery. His head is tipped down, forearms held easily, the veins in his hands tracking his skin as his fingers smooth over the top, plugging and lifting while the vapor twists around his chest and evaporates into the air.
He’s stunning.
It almost hurts to watch him. To hear him. To be this close to such magnetism and not be pulled all the way in.
When he finishes, he tugs away the pipe and slips it into the holder. “You trusted that I wouldn’t control you.”
Surprise flits through me. “I guess I did.”
The look he gives me is enigmatic.
“So, you can play music without magic, but what about your cloak?”
He blinks at my question, but there’s something there, behind his eyes. Something hidden.
“What about it?”
“It’s as famous as your pipe. Why do you wear it? What’s the significance of the colored strips?”
“Who says there is one?”
My interest is piqued even more. “You do. Just not out loud.”
“It’s just a cloak.”
I don’t believe that for a second.
“And what you play is just a song, right?” I tease.
He flashes a grin. “Precisely.”
We pause in shared shreds. In strips of ourselves that keep tangling together.
He moves closer, head dipping down while mine rises up. I coil with nervous want.
“Estinya,” he says, his tone low. Gentle.
My fingers twist at my skirt. “Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
My breath stutters. “You want to kiss me?”
He gives a single nod that ignites something inside of me. “I’ve thought of little else since the moment you pressed your lush lips against mine in the desert and let me taste how perfectly mouthwatering you are.”
His answer pours over me, melting me right through.
“I had mud and blood caked all over me at the time,” I point out.
“You’re right,” he murmurs, hand coming up to cup my jaw. “That probably helped the allure. We should check to see.”
I burble out a choked laugh, and he slowly dips closer. Surrounding me. So close that my hands come up, my fingers clutching his shirt.
He looks between my wide-eyed stare. “Breathe.”
“Right.”
His lips curve as I take in a shaky breath that just gets eaten up with how fast my pulse is racing. If he doesn’t kiss me, I might pass out. My lungs feel fit to burst, my body tensed with anticipation . . .
Then his mouth meets mine.
When we first kissed, I thought he was dying.
Now, he’s larger than life. He’s eclipsed all else.
Blocked the harshest glares and cast me in the reprieve of a shadow.
He seeps into my every sense with the stroke of his tongue as it slides against my closed mouth.
It’s the rapping of knuckles against a door, seeking permission.
And I open.
The moment I grant him entry, both of his palms cradle the back of my head, thumbs binding my cheeks. Like an imprint left in sand, every grain molding to his touch. This time, he’s not dazed beneath the effects of the venom. He’s fully focused, body brimming, every ounce of attention on me.
It brings such a heady feeling of power. Of hunger.
Of want.
“This mouth,” he groans. “From the moment you lashed me with your fiery words, I couldn’t stop staring at it. Wanting you to keep talking. To keep moving that tongue of yours. To give me your words, even if they were only laced with loathing.”
I breathe hard beneath his admission, unable to speak.
His finger taps against my bottom lip. “I keep getting morsels of you. Your determination. Your fire. This quiet courage and sweet kindness. I keep swallowing it down, and I’m still not full. I want more.”
“I want more too. But I’m scared.”
He looks at me with determined promise. “I won’t hurt you. I will never hurt you again.”
I tremble against his chest. “Then what will you do?”
He grips my cheeks and looks deeply into my eyes. “I will make every effort to deserve you.”
That was exactly the thing I wanted him to say. That I needed to hear.
“I’ve been hurt before,” I admit with a small fracture. “I hated it.”
“I’ll lure him into a burning pyre.”
Laughter floats out of me. “No.”
He sighs like he’s disappointed I’m against murder. “Then what would you ask of me? What do you want?”
My pulse hammers against a chisel, sculpting a new angle into my heart. Smoothing over chipped edges.
My words, tentatively daring, are an admission that begs. “I want you,” I confess, unable to say anything blunter, anything cruder, but hoping the look in my blushing face tells him everything I mean.
His eyes flare. “You’re sure?” When I nod, he lets out a breathless curse.
I’m scooped up off my feet so fast that I let out a squeal. He holds me chest to chest and begins to devour my mouth with unrestrained passion, and I shake with relief and desire.
Finally.
My eyes fall closed as I kiss him back with all the desperation I’ve kept folded behind my chest, bunched up, trying to make it smaller.
But now, it all unfolds. Like a tablecloth spread out, readying for a feast.
He laps up each exhale and sips down my taste. Eats up my air and fills me with a frantic fervor of everything I crave. He tastes of smoked spice and passion, and I gulp down every single morsel to feed my hunger.
I feel him sit on the bed, his strong hold keeping me secured in his lap.
“Ambrosia,” he says, pulling away to drag his tongue over my lips and pepper my skin with his voice. “Pure, divine ambrosia. But then, I knew you would be.”
His heated words send a carnal warmth low into my belly.
And then lower still.
His hand comes up to stroke my horn, making goosebumps spread down my skin as I shiver with delicious yearning.
My hands go to his shirt, and I tear at it, needing to feel him.
To see him. I’ve never been so forward, but I crave him fiercely.
Like a binding rope finally snapped, and I don’t have to hold back anymore.
Impatient, I delve beneath the hem to stroke over his stomach, relishing in the way his muscles jump. He reaches a hand behind him and tugs off his tunic in one swipe, and I lean back to admire him.
From abdomen to collarbone, his smooth skin is molded to muscle, every inch honed from strength and power. I trace my fingertips from the ridges across his stomach, up to the sculpted pecs, and then drift to the bulging curves of his arms.
The sight of him makes my mouth water.
“Unfair,” I mumble as my greedy hands keep stroking over him. “You’re perfect.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You should see my view.” He leans forward and presses a kiss just above my bodice, and my chest heaves.
I start to rock against him, to soothe a budding ache that makes me writhe.
The growl he makes against my mouth is decadent. “I’m going to touch you now.”
Good, because if he doesn’t, all this heat will go to waste, and I don’t want it to fizzle out. I want to combust.
“Yes. Please.”
“Turn around,” he says, and his order fills me with a rush of exhilaration.
Somewhat clumsily, I move shaky thighs until my butt is notched against his groin. I can feel him beneath his pants, hardening as I shift back into him. He locks his knees beneath mine and pulls my legs apart. Wantonly. Wickedly.
Then he rucks up my skirt.
My gasp fastens against my teeth. Turns from air to liquid when his hand slips between my legs. His finger goes right to that spot. That smoldering, throbbing, aching spot. But I suppose that should come as no surprise.
He always seems to know exactly where to find me.
Varrik strokes and circles with painstaking precision. I feel his sharp stubble against my cheek, feel it more when he uses his other hand to drag my hair aside. “Rest back on me.”
I hadn’t noticed my spine was locked up, but at his words, I lean into him. I watch his strong hand move against me, and the sight is so erotic I have to stop myself from making any noise. My nipples pebble, stomach trembling, horns tingling.
And then he dips a finger into me.
My hands lash out, gripping onto his forearm. I feel his throat bob.
He thrusts in and out, mimicking what I’d really like him to do. The part of him that I’d truly like between my thighs. If he feels this good with just a single finger, then what will his hard length feel like?
Just the thought makes a flush scatter across my skin.
He tugs his finger away, and my eyes flutter open just in time to see him lift that finger . . .
And suck it into his mouth.
I stare, wide-eyed, as he tastes me.
“So scandalized,” he says with a smirk. “Has no one ever tasted you?”
I shake my head, my cheeks on fire. Theo would never have done something so lewd. “No.”
Satisfied hunger roams in his eyes. “Good.”
I look away, embarrassed, but he catches hold of my face. Brings his finger to press upon my bottom lip.
“Lick.”
My eyes splay wide. “I-I can’t.”
“You can.”
His daring challenge twists me up with lust. With excitement. And just like every time he fills me with such feelings, I join him in the spar. Relish in the clash.
My tongue darts out.
His finger presses in until I taste myself mixed with the hints of his mouth. “See? Sweetest nectar.”
“Varrik,” I say, tone heightening to a near whine. I fear that all of this desire is going to burst. I’m going to break. I denied it, fought against it for so long that it’s now become a swelling thirst in my throat.
I desperately want to drink him down.
His fingers move to the laces of my bodice. “May I?”