Renick #3
Fucking hells—as if I can think about anything right now.
The feel and press of her making me go out of my mind.
From my taller advantage, with her this close, the cut of her bodice robs me of the air in my lungs, sends my thoughts straight to the gutter.
The enticing way her delicate breasts push above, swelling with cleavage—I immediately divert my gaze.
I swallow hard, my throat muscles working. “If not my feet, then what should I think about, Princess?”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “My body,” she says.
Gods, help me.
“I meant, where my body is in relation to yours.” A flicker of a smile teases her mouth, and I swear she’s a sprite sent to torment me on purpose.
As she begins to move, I stumble immediately. My boot catches her gown hem, my knee knocks hers, and I mutter an oath that makes her press her lips together to stifle a laugh.
“I should have counted down,” she says, offering me an excuse. She’s so lovely for it, but I’m simply too enamored with her to focus. “Let’s start again.”
She counts down from three, and my right foot follows hers.
She pauses. “Good, like that.” She beams up at me, and I swear to the gods, I’ll do anything she asks of me just to see her look at me like that every second of the day. “Just keep following me.”
To the ends of the realms.
She adjusts my hand on her waist, shifting it slightly higher, and the movement pulls us closer. “Feel the rhythm. Don’t count the steps. Just move with me.”
I have to refrain from saying how I truly want to feel us move together. “Shouldn’t we have music for this?” I remark. “To hear a rhythm, I mean.”
She licks her lips in thought, nearly sending me to my knees. “We could, but rhythm is something you need to feel—” she places her hand to my chest, right over my heart “—here.’
The gods-damned world stops spinning. My breath turns shallow, my pulse drums in my ears. Her gaze holds mine, a brazen dare there just beneath, before she finally lowers her hand back to my bicep.
I note the tremble of her fingers with a rush of adrenaline through the valves of my heart.
“I’m ready,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
She nods without meeting my eyes. And this time, for her, I do try. I follow her lead and try not to focus on the pressure of her hand in mine, on the subtle shifts of her body as she leads me through the turns.
She begins to hum a low melody, a tune I don’t recognize. A song from Threnmere, maybe, something old and minor-keyed and haunting—and my chest aches at the beautiful sound of it, that she’s comfortable enough in my presence to lower her guard and let me hear her.
Then gradually, clumsily, we begin to dance.
It’s hesitant and testing at first. Finding our own rhythm, with gentle sways and measures. But somewhere in the middle of it, between the second misstep and the third turn, something changes, turns instinctive.
My body finds hers, syncing to her body’s cadence. We move together, her hand warm in mine, her body pressed close—closer than propriety allows—her breath soft against my neck.
Her humming fades. Our movements slow. And then we stop, and we’re standing in the middle of the garden room with the late afternoon light sinking, and she’s still in my arms, her hand still on my shoulder, her face tilted up toward mine.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes are wide and dark and I can see my own reflection in them—this fool for her, a thief who wants to steal her for himself, with her name now branded behind his ribs.
The air between us charges, and I can taste it. Sweet and dangerous, like her garden.
Like her.
I think about stepping back. I need to let go of her waist and bow and make some joke, some deflection. Do anything to break this moment before I do something I can’t take back…though I’d hardly regret it—like take her sweet lips in a demanding kiss to quench this fierce hunger.
Her fingers tighten on my shoulder.
I draw her closer.
We stand here, suspended, breathing each other’s air, the seconds stretching. She shifts just slightly, her body moving in answer to the demand of mine, her hips canting into me, and it sends an excruciating ache right to my groin. My jaw locks hard to suppress a groan.
I came here to kill the king. Instead, I’m dancing with his bride. And right this instant, the only thing I crave to murder is the distance between us, to bring her impossibly closer.
My fingers dig into her waist, my head dips closer—
Voices in the corridor fracture the moment. The sound of footsteps breaks us apart.
She pulls away, smoothing her skirts, composing her face with a speed that would be impressive if it didn’t make my entire body thrum with need to strip her of them.
By the time Isolde reenters the room, Sera is back in her window seat with her book and I’m standing at a respectful distance, examining a vine on the garden wall as if botany is a deep interest.
Isolde looks at her charge, then sends a curious glance my way. “They’re ready for your fitting, Your Highness,” she says to Sera.
I pick up my hat and bow to the princess, meeting her eyes only briefly before retiring from the room. In the corridor, I lean against the stone wall and press a hand over my chest, trying to steady the frantic beat of the muscle.
The bells of my hat jangle their pathetic song, making me irrationally angry, as I yearn to hear the softly hummed notes of hers again.