CHAPTER 16
Phantom fingers caressed my scalp, over my nape.
The space between his body and the stone behind me was barely enough to move. His arm, braced beside my head, all but trapped me in place.
“Why would you want to kiss me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “I thought I was just a little human to you.”
He bobbed his head idly from side to side. “Human, mage . . . That matters little to me.” His voice dropped to a deep murmur that had parts of me clenching. “And you know what, Darling? I daresay that your interest is the same as mine.”
Keeping my expression carefully blank was an effort, my teeth nearly clenching at the sheer presumptuousness of him. And yet, I might as well have written my attraction across my forehead before we entered the pool.
Whatever this was, I didn’t trust it.
“Is that what you think?” I asked, evasive as ever.
I was acutely aware that I still hadn’t asked him to step away.
“That is what I think.” He grinned, his teeth grazing his lower lip. I wondered what it would feel like to have those teeth on my skin. “I saw the way you were looking at me. The way your body is giving you away right now.”
His eyes dropped, and I already knew what we would see there. My skin prickled, my neck flushed, and my breasts—my breasts had tightened against the fabric of my bra. The liquid engulfing us was so warm I couldn’t even blame it. No, this was all him.
I could have peered down at him, could have tried to see if he was as affected by this as I was. But a rough chuckle rolled out of Reagan’s mouth, catching my attention.
My heartbeat thundered. “This is a twisted joke to you, isn’t it?”
I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t so much as sway. Reagan caught the wrist that pushed him, holding it between us, his smile dimming.
“It’s not a joke,” he responded firmly, not a trace of irony in his tone.
Those fingers on my chin moved to my jaw, his thumb brushing over the crest of my cheekbone in a slow stroke. I considered tearing his hand away, yet . . . that expression—there was something in it that looked awfully like honesty.
I just didn’t know if I could believe him.
“Explain,” I said, my voice commanding, letting him keep his hand.
His eyes were smouldering, locked on me. “I think about you, Jane,” Reagan murmured, his thumb finding the corner of my mouth. “I’m curious about you. I have wondered about all sorts of trivial things. What makes you tick, what makes you laugh, what makes you squirm.”
I searched for any hint of malice in that admission, studying cerulean eyes as bright as the Quintessence itself. “Why? Why put all that attention on me?”
“Because you intrigue me,” he answered, a short chuckle escaping through his nose, as though he were voicing it for the first time.
“Not only because you’re beautiful, but also for reasons far more concerning.
” His face turned serious. “Why pay so much attention to the estate’s issues?
Why are you really here, helping me?” His eyes probed mine, as if trying to find the answers there.
“You think I don’t remember that you didn’t run away when I was fighting the Strzygas?
Most people would have. Most humans definitely would.
So why didn’t you? What made you stay? Maybe because you actually want to stay here and, in fact, don’t want to go back to your boring, human town. You just have to, don’t you?”
He marked the slight pressing of my lips, the colour flushing my neck and face. He didn’t stop there.
“See, I have questions too, since you arrived. But they’re growing less honourable by the day.” He inhaled deeply, deliberately.
Just as he had done once, Reagan traced his thumb over my lower lip. My captor’s thumb, savouring the feel of it. “Lately, what I can’t stop thinking about is how it would feel to touch you. So here I am, asking. Let me.”
The pad of his finger pressed lightly inside my lower lip, as if in silent request. I tasted the salt on his skin with the tip of my tongue, heard the quiet breath that escaped him, my chest revelling in the sound.
A blend of satisfaction and doubt stirred in me at his words. That this might not be deception, but actual desire. And if it was . . . the thought sent a flush of heat through me.
“Show me,” I whispered, daring to see if he would yield to me. “Prove that this is what you want. Kiss me here.” I traced the hollow between my shoulder and neck.
There was surprise on his face, and I couldn’t believe my own nerves. Searing, but calm. Expectant. I needed him to be the one to agree first, as if that would somehow make it easier for me to believe him.
He smiled—arrogantly—but obliged me. Reagan dipped his head.
I stilled, my body pulsing. His nose traced a slow path along the crook of my neck, taking his time.
His breath fanned against my skin, followed by a slow drag of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth.
My toes curled. I suppressed the moan that threatened to escape with my breath.
The desire and yearning in his touch felt entirely too real.
“All you want is a kiss,” I said, though it lingered on the edge of a question.
He whispered so low his voice was barely a rasp, “What I want is endless, all of you.” His mouth grazed up my neck in a feather-light touch, his teeth finding the shell of my ear, biting down gently.
My eyes fluttered shut. “But whatever you give, even if it’s just a taste, I will take it gladly.
And if you offer nothing, I will hunger for it still. Have I explained enough for you?”
My pulse pounded in my chest, my legs pressing together.
He pulled back, his hand still on my cheek.
Foolish. This was foolish.
But I felt the desire, the unwavering interest that his curiosity placed on me. Just mere curiosity. It couldn’t be anything more, not for him, nor for me. And now I was curious too.
I cocked my head, roving my gaze freely over him.
He grinned, as if he read the decision on my face, his fingers continuing their soft strokes on my jaw.
I brought my hands to his stomach, sliding them up his chest. The heat of his body against my palms .
. . every hard surface and tight muscle . . .
Reagan hummed a low sound of encouragement.
I let my own desire consume my reason. “One kiss,” I said.
His hands slid down to my lower back, touching my bare skin with firm fingers. He’d never touched me like this before—without the intent to spar or to fling, but to feel. To hold. He hovered over me. A silent, almost relieved breath seemed to slip from his lips.
He repeated, “One kiss.”
Reagan pressed his mouth against mine slowly, giving me a soft, searching kiss.
I wished it would be bad, wished his touch would be repulsive and cold. But the feel of him, warm and tall and wanting, digging his fingers into my skin, was like an invigorating winter wind.
I threaded my fingers into his damp hair, and Reagan kissed me harder, his lips beckoning me. His tongue clung to mine, turning more fiery, greedier. I couldn’t stop the pleased sigh that came from my chest, and so he pressed us even closer together, skin against skin.
Craving more, I bit his lower lip, and Reagan let out a low, throaty groan. The sound kindled a sweet throbbing in my core. He lifted me and wrapped my legs around his waist. Every place we touched was a friction that defied any rational thought.
His body pressed me against the solid stone, and I couldn’t think anymore. All I could do was feel. Feel his mouth devouring mine, feel his hips grinding against my own, feel his arousal pushing against my stomach. This was prize and punishment and long-lasting denied lust.
Gods. I would regret this. I would drown in this. My nails sank deep into the powerful curve of his arms, as if I were trying to grasp reality again.
Turning my head to the side, I broke our kiss. His warm mouth found my neck, and I could tell he meant to keep going.
“That is enough,” I murmured raggedly.
He stilled, his breathing heavy. Reagan leaned back, eyes still simmering.
My mouth opened, the words climbing in my throat—that this was a mistake, that I shouldn’t have asked for more—but I stopped myself. Instead, I stretched my legs, and he let go, putting me down on the ledge again.
“Was this not . . .” he murmured, as if he didn’t want to voice that aloud to the room.
“It was fine. But that was a kiss,” I said, not quite able to meet his eyes. More than a kiss. “I think we should go now.”
He nodded, still scanning my face. Nothing else needed to be said. Reagan removed the ledge and flung us out of the pool.
He handed me a white towel that he likely summoned while he dried his hair with another one, water still dripping down his body.
I had to push away the need to feel him again.
I would eventually regain the ability to construct a rational thought.
Remember that, in the best of circumstances, I was his emissary. In the worst, his captive.
We finished drying ourselves in silence. After I was fully dressed again, I looked at Reagan. His shirt was on, but still unbuttoned, which reminded me.
“Is that your sentence mark?” I asked, drying my hair with a towel.
He hummed.
“It looks like there’s a deep cut in the centre,” I said, noticing as the spot gleamed against the light.
He glanced down at himself, where the mark lay etched into his skin, and his expression shifted, growing solemn at the sight. “It’s a heartstone. It’s carved into my chest.”
Warmth drained from my face. “What is a heartstone?”
Reagan paused, still drying his hair as he spoke. “It’s a type of gemstone, a gift that came with my sentence. Heartstones are tied to the essence of a person. A soul, their life force, every intangible aspect that makes you who you are.”
A gift from his sentence. How did Malory carve a stone inside his chest? I shook the thought away. “Does it affect you?”