CHAPTER FORTY-SIX #2
The cold marble nipped at her flesh as Emmery stared at him, wide eyed, and also acutely aware of his hand settling just above her knee. His other tipped her chin up to hold her there. And, oh so slowly, he teased her legs apart, shifting one then the other, before he stepped between them.
Her mind emptied and she couldn’t think.
All she could do was feel.
Her attention narrowed to that throbbing space between her legs and the dampness gathered there. The painful anticipation.
Dez closed that gap, nestled himself between her thighs, and leaned forward. Emmery’s eyes fell shut. She braced herself to finally feel his lips on hers and soothe this relentless ache inside her. His breath grazed her cheek, and his fingers threaded into her hair—
As he tugged the pin free and let her silver locks tumble down her back, he whispered, “But your hair may need some work.”
She bit back a groan of frustration, the need inside her screaming for release.
The tender warmth of his touch seeped into her with each brush of his fingers.
He twisted her hair into a series of braids she could never replicate, his stare focused on his work, occasionally dipping to catch her eye. Each time he fought a smile.
“Your hair is very soft,” he mused. He wound a strand around his finger and tugged playfully.
So is yours, she wanted to say, but didn’t want to reveal she touched his curls while he was unconscious.
Would he let her touch them now? He had never said no before, never stopped her.
How far would he let her go? To what extent was he willing to play?
It seemed the rules constantly shifted and the stakes heightened.
Dez’s deft hands wove her hair into perfection, and Emmery retrieved pins from the drawer at his command.
His hands felt so damn good, different from when Vesper had untangled her hair in the mountain village or when her mother had braided it over a century ago.
Those had been a comfort, an act of caring, one she’d done for Maela, too.
As Dez’s fingers grazed her scalp, heat and fire and ecstasy echoed through her body and sang in her blood.
“Did that school of yours teach you this, too?” Her voice fell quiet over her thundering heart.
“My mum had a bone illness. Her joints were often sore, so—” His hands stalled before he reached for the last pin. “I would braid it for her.”
She inhaled as he drew closer. The scent of cool mint from his last veramint leaf flooded her senses, lingered on the back of her tongue, and she wanted to drown in it. Wanted to taste it. “That’s kind of you.”
Dez’s face lingered too close for her to think of anything but her recurring dream. The one where he was hers and he made her fluid, sensual—all pleasure. As he tugged a few strands of hair free to frame her face, the corner of his lip twitched.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He nodded to the mirror. “Do you like it?”
Emmery turned and surveyed the gorgeous art of her hair gathered in a sweep of braids and twists. “How did you—”
“Muscle memory,” he murmured, his tone contemplative.
When she turned back to him, she caught him studying her chest, his brows pulled together, but he wasn’t staring at her breasts. His focus was latched on the tip of the scar over her heart.
She gently lifted his chin and drew his attention back to her face, eager to pull it away from that ugly bit of her. Dez’s gaze dropped to her lips.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“My pleasure,” he whispered. A call of temptation.
Emmery raised her hand to his brow and gently traced the scar there, the one she’d seen a few times now. “What’s this from?”
A small humorous breath left him, and he said, “While I wish I had a better story, I pierced it. Back when I was young and rebellious.” He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and she spotted a similar one on the corner of his mouth.
“It was really to enrage my father. It worked. And thus the scar.”
She smiled, bright and warm. “King Destonne O’Daire the rebel. Who knew?”
“I was hardly a king. Barely a prince.” A small, morose chuckle rumbled in his chest. “But I used to be fun. You might have even liked me all those years ago.”
Her finger followed the curve of his cheekbone. “Well, I like you now.”
Dez gave her a long skeptical look. “I was … different back then.”
Emmery studied him, his walls lowered, and mask tossed aside.
Maybe when they were both young they’d been different in the same way—not so weighed down by the world.
On top of the fever and thorns, the heaviness and burden of things in Asaella rested on his shoulders.
And though what he’d said about the crown breaking him down and remaking him was explanation enough, she wanted to hear it from him, so she asked, “How so?”
He gently took her hand and studied the rose carved into her palm. “I used to dream. Hope for a brighter future. A better world.”
“And now?”
He rested her hand over his still heart. “Now, it seems, I only dream of one thing.”
“World domination? Bathing in the blood of your enemies? Unlimited supplies of tea?” She smirked, but he pensively studied her lips, like he was a lost soul and she was his temple.
Dez gave her a wisp of a smile, as if his truth knocked on his heart, pounded on the walls, but got caught on the impenetrable thorns and left him bloody and torn.
Then his fingertip traced the lacy band of her stocking at the top of her thigh.
Emmery’s breath snagged and she arched into him, nearly losing this game.
But he looked like he would lose first. And gladly.
“I really do like these,” he said, his voice low. “Probably too much.”
“What, uhm—” she started, but her mind spun as his finger followed the lace and teased her inner thigh with the lightest touch, so close, but not close enough. “What else do you like?”
His finger slid higher, and that throbbing ache only grew. Emmery bit down on her lip to stifle the whimper climbing her throat.
“It’s a very lengthy list,” he replied softly, “I’m not sure we have time for.”
“And those thoughts you had. When you, uhm, walked in.” Her mind clouded like a fog and she couldn’t remember a single reason not to give in. “What do you—what about those?”
He traced the edge of her undergarment and leaned in, his lips at her ear. “It wouldn’t be wise if I told you all the depraved things I want to do to you. All the pleasure I would give and take. The sounds you would make for me.”
Emmery shivered, her breasts tightening as desire built inside her. She grasped the collar of his shirt and gingerly slid to the edge of the counter, trapping his hips between her thighs in an unspoken dare to show her instead.
When his arousal pressed against that soft, aching spot, a breathy sound slipped from her lips. Air caught in Destonne’s throat, and his eyes slammed shut as if he was enduring unholy torture. When he opened them again, his gaze became a blazing inferno that nearly swept her away.
“Are you afraid to say them?” she challenged. “Or is it me you’re frightened of?”
The playful spark in his gaze extinguished, replaced with unending longing.
Dez took her chin in his hand and traced the swell of her bottom lip with his thumb.
“A bit of honesty,” he said, his voice rough.
“It seems my desires and fears are one in the same—vengeful, rampant monsters clawing at their cages. And I’m terrified that if I do unleash them, if I finally give in, I won’t be able to hold back. ”
Her lips parted and his attention fixed on her mouth. “What if I want you unleashed?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “We both know you don’t want that. This is fun, but—we know what this is. How you feel about me.”
Her brows pinched. “And how do I feel, Dez?”
“I don’t have to tell you, Emmery,” he said, low and somber. “You already know.”
His words doused her like frigid water and dissipated the fog, snapping her out of it. Reminding her why she was here.
Who she was here for.
Dez retreated from her, and left the air between them cold, empty, and aching. “I’ll let you finish getting ready.”
He strolled from the room, and left her staring after him.