Chapter 43 Never Like This #2
“You are blushing,” I murmur.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts the glass and drinks as if fortifying himself for battle rather than answering a question. “I told you mine,” I remind him gently. “You have to tell me yours.”
His fingers tighten slightly around the stem of the glass. For a moment I think he will refuse. I think he will turn cold again, retreat behind distance and strategy and pride.
Instead, he sets the glass down. He draws in a breath that is not dramatic, not performative, but measured, as if he is stepping toward something unfamiliar and choosing not to turn back.
“I have never kissed a woman before,” he says.
I blink. “You what?”
His jaw tightens faintly, but he does not retract it. “I have never kissed a woman,” he repeats, more evenly this time. “Not properly.”
“But Jessamy—”
“I have been intimate with women,” he says, cutting me off before the jealousy can take root. “I have sought pleasure. That is not the same.”
His voice lowers slightly. “I have never wanted to.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. He looks at me then, and there is no arrogance in it. There is only honesty, and something dangerously unguarded beneath it.
“Kissing,” he continues, “requires… intention. Presence.” He grimaces, self-aware. “It requires wanting to taste someone. Not simply to take them.”
Desire pools low in my belly, unfamiliar and embarrassingly honest. “And you have never wanted to?” I ask softly.
He holds my eyes. “No. Not until now.”
The air thickens between us, not heavy with power this time, not strained, but charged in an entirely different way.
I swallow. “That,” I say carefully, “was not what I expected you to say.”
“I imagine not.”
“You have never kissed anyone,” I repeat softly, in awe.
“No.” His voice is lower now.
“Then that seems… an oversight,” I say.
He smiles faintly. “Does it?”
“Yes.” I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the quiet tension in his body like something held carefully on a leash.
“May I?” I ask.
His throat moves. “Yes.”
That is all he says. I lean in slowly. Not because I am uncertain, but because I want him to feel every inch of it.
My hand comes to his jaw first, fingers sliding along the line of it, feeling the heat of his skin beneath mine.
He draws in a breath, the unfamiliarity of being touched this way catching him off guard.
His hands hover for a moment, unsure where to rest. I close the distance.
The first contact is soft, just the barest brush of my mouth against his.
He goes utterly motionless beneath me, like something startled into awareness.
I feel the change in him immediately, the way his breath forgets itself, the way his hand tightens at my waist.
I kiss him again, firmer this time. He exhales against my lips, a sound low and almost startled, and something in him shifts. His hand comes up slowly to rest at my waist, holding there without pressure. I part my lips slightly and drag them across his lower lip, tasting wine and the warmth of him.
That is when he responds. Hungrily. His mouth moves against mine with a restraint that lasts only a moment before it gives way to instinct. He deepens the kiss slowly at first, then more surely, as if mapping the sensation, memorizing it.
I gasp when his hand tightens at my waist. He makes a sound in his throat at that, low and unsteady. He tilts his head, and the kiss changes. Deepens. Slows. His mouth learning mine, the rhythm of it, the way I respond when he presses or softens or lingers.
It is not polished, not practiced. Frankly, it is better than either.
His other hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, and when he pulls me closer the movement is instinctive, almost desperate, as though something long denied has finally been given permission to exist.
I shift, half climbing into his lap without thinking. He exhales unevenly at that, one hand gripping my hip now, anchoring me there.
The kiss grows deeper. Longer. My fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he follows without hesitation, mouth moving against mine again and again, slow and searching and then suddenly fierce, as if he is trying to memorize the taste of me before it can be taken away.
I lose track of time. His mouth is warm against mine, our breaths sliding together as I press closer. He makes quiet sounds when I kiss him again, when I catch lightly at his lower lip, when I linger just long enough to see if I can draw that sound from him once more.
I can. His control frays beautifully. His hands grow more confident now, one sliding along my side while the other cups the back of my neck, holding me there as though I might vanish if he lets go.
We kiss until my lips are swollen. Until my lungs burn. Until I am laughing breathlessly against his mouth and he answers by kissing me again instead of speaking.
It is slow. Then urgent. Then slow again. An endless cycle of restraint and surrender.
Then the doors open, swinging inward with the careless authority of someone who does not bother to knock.
We freeze.
“The servants told me there was a new game roo—”
Sevrin stops. His eyes take in the scene. He stands with his wine glass in one hand, eyes sweeping the room before landing on us.
I am very much in Colsar’s lap. His hand is still at my waist. My fingers are still tangled in his hair. My mouth is still parted from the kiss.
Sevrin blinks once. Colsar does not remove his hand. Does not push me away. He simply looks at his brother. “Yes?” he says calmly.
Sevrin exhales through his nose. “I was informed there had been renovations. I did not realize they included…” His eyes shift between us. “This.”
Colsar keeps his hands wrapped around my waist, holding me firmly in his lap. His chest is still rising a little too quickly. His mouth slightly flushed. His eyes darker than I have ever seen them.
Slowly, he looks at his brother. “If you do not leave,” he says evenly, “I will escort you out.”
Sevrin studies us, something calculating moving behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head once.
My face burns. Colsar’s hand tightens once at my hip before finally loosening. “Leave,” he repeats. And this time there is enough quiet threat in his voice that even Sevrin pauses before muttering “enjoy your...games," and stepping back into the corridor.
The doors close and silence floods back in. I am still straddling his lap. We stare at each other, my lips tingling.
“So,” I whisper.
He looks at my mouth again. “I may need further practice,” he says.
And then he kisses me again.