12. Chapter Twelve #2
But the muscle at his temple ticks as he stares at me as though I’m going to vaporize, and I… I don’t like seeing him look so lost. Fighting himself as though feeling anything other than a simmering rage is the worst that can happen.
“I lied to you,” I say.
His focus sharpens and I’m locked in brilliant flashing amber, his sole focus.
I put Percy onto his desk and step toward him.
Toward his blazing warmth. Toward a mistake that’s not a mistake.
This will cost me, but it will cost me more if I don’t say it.
I can’t stand it if he never knows this.
“Kissing you wasn’t a lie. Telling you it was a mistake was the lie. ”
“Before you say any more and damn yourself forever, you have to know my father will use you against me,” he rasps, catching my hand when I flatten my palm on his chest.
His hearts are racing. He’s hot, heat shimmering off his scales. The fire in his eyes is banked to another kind of heat. The kind that shifts beneath my skin and sinks into my bones.
“And that’s why you accepted my lie and left,” I say.
“You should accept the out I gave you.” His grip tightens around my wrist, anchoring me to him. “You don’t want this.”
I bridge the distance between us, flattening my breasts against his stomach and looking up at him. His hand rises, almost as though he has no control, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
He’s dangerous. This whole situation is dangerous.
But I don’t care.
Because what I want is greater than danger.
“But I do want you, Zavin. I choose you.”
He lets out a slow, controlled breath. He cups my face, strokes my cheeks with his thumbs. Carefully. Gently.
“You know I have everything to lose now,” he says.
“As long as we’re clear there are no more lies between us, I accept,” I say.
His eyes roam my face. Drop to my lips. The skin tingles as he leans down, his breath coasting over my skin. “You honor me and I vow to earn the trust you’ve placed in me. You are everything to me, Miro.”
Then his mouth brushes mine. Soft. Barely there. Asking permission. His lips are warm and dry and he holds them against mine without moving, without demanding. A fine tremor runs through his jaw. I press forward, just slightly, and slide my tongue into his mouth, gliding over his fangs.
His groan starts low in his chest, in the place where he has kept every want locked behind his ribs, and it vibrates through his lips into mine. His hand rises to my jaw, his palm warm and rough, his claws carefully tucked, and he tilts my face and kisses me deeper. His tongue dances against mine.
My nipples tighten, peaking against the fabric of my shirt. His arm bands around my waist and pulls me hard against him, crushing me to his chest, as his tail curls around the back of my calf.
His mouth slants over mine at a new angle, deeper, and the sound he makes is half-growl, half-plea.
His tongue strokes against mine, retreats, returns, each pass hungrier than the last. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, fingers threading through and tightening just enough to tilt my head back, opening my mouth wider for him.
I gasp into the kiss and he swallows the sound.
His teeth graze my lower lip, a brief catch and release, and the sting sends a pulse of heat straight down my spine. My hands fist in the fabric at his shoulders. He pulls me closer still, grinding out a broken syllable against my mouth. We are not gentle anymore. We are not careful.
There is danger outside this room. There is a House full of teeth and a father who holds the leash. None of it matters. Nothing matters except the solid heat of him under my palms, the flex of muscle along his ribs, the way his breath hitches when I slide my fingers into his soft hair.
I want him. I have never wanted anything like I want this male.
Not a puzzle. Not an escape. Not safety.
Him. His hands learning the curve of my back.
His scales warming under my touch. His mouth leaving mine to trail across my jaw and down my throat, open and hot, tasting me like I am the first thing he has ever been allowed to want for himself.
Caring is new to him. He has never been permitted to hold something without it being used against him.
But wanting a male this desperately, this totally, wanting him with a hunger that drowns out every survival instinct I have ever honed, this is new to me too.
And I choose it. I choose him. I choose every sharp-edged, guarded, careful-turned-desperate part of him.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
His pupils are blown. His chest heaves. Then he bends and slides one arm behind my knees and the other behind my back and lifts me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face against his throat as he carries me through the archway into the sleeping chamber and sets me down, carefully, carefully, on the cool stone floor beside his bed.
He keeps his hands on my hips until he’s sure I’m steady. Then he lifts them to my face. Cups my jaw. His thumbs trace my cheekbones.
“Tell me now if you want this to stop.” His voice is rough, half-wrecked. “Tell me now and things go back to how they were. I will not touch you. I will not press. Say the word, Miro, and I walk away.”
He means it. He’ll stop. He’ll return to locked doors and careful distance and never letting himself want anything out loud. It would destroy him. But he’d do it.
I reach for the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head. Let it fall.
“I don’t want things to go back.” My voice is steady. Clearer than I’ve ever been. “I want you. Please. Take me, Zavin.”