Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(43)

“Touch me. Please,” she said.

His own rules were forgotten.

She wasn’t sure she was breathing as his fingers slipped up her leg, then beneath the waist of her underthings. His hand curled around her backside, his thumb stroked the inside of her thigh, so close, so close—

Isla looked from the sight of her body nearly exposed, his hand on her, to him, now just a few inches away. In his eyes, she saw torture.

She frowned. “Oro, if you don’t want—”

Before Isla could finish, he flipped her around and gripped her hips. She gasped as he pulled her toward him, up against him and the proof that he wanted this just as much as she did. The pulsing heat within her became a wildfire. She arched her back and ground against him, making him curse.

Oro slid his hands up to her waist. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, in a deep voice that scraped against the back of her mind. “Knowing you’ve been wearing my shirts to bed, Isla,” he said, “it drives me mad.” His lips touched the edge of her ear. “That’s what I’m going to think about when I’m alone.” He pulled the shirt up, exposing her underthings. He looked and drew a sharp breath, taking in the lace. “You. In my clothes.”

Her heart was going to break out of her chest. They both watched as his fingers slowly, slowly, too slowly, slid their way down to where she wanted him most. Finally, he reached her, and she closed her eyes tightly as he found the proof of her own desire. He stilled, his hand right there, right there—

She froze too, wondering if she should be embarrassed. . .

“Do you want this?” he asked.

She looked over her shoulder at him. She had never wanted anything more. “Yes.”

He was a man unleashed. Suddenly, his shirt and her underthings were on the floor, and his hands were on her chest. In the dark, all her focus narrowed to the heat of his touch as his calluses lightly brushed across the most sensitive parts of her skin. She seemed to melt against him, making all sorts of sounds as he swept his knuckles down her bare stomach and murmured in her ear. “Tell me what you like, love,” he said. “Show me.”

“Here,” she said, squirming. She found his hand and started to guide it down again. “Please.”

But his fingers were long and practiced and needed little direction, even though he seemed to enjoy the sight of her hand over his. When he was right where she needed him, she reached back to weave her fingers behind his neck and said, “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

His lips were right over hers; his breath was hot against her skin, and he groaned as she began moving on him.

Her head fell back and she made a sound that he seemed to like, because he kissed across her pulse. He knew where to touch her, where to linger, where to explore.

It only took moments for her to be panting and at the edge of the world, and nothing had ever felt this good, this sweet. “Oro, I—” she said, because she could feel sparks traveling up her spine.

“Not yet,” he said. He kept going, and she gasped as his teeth scraped lightly up her neck, until he reached her ear. “I want you so much I think it might actually kill me,” he whispered, before he curled his fingers, and the world shattered around her. He held her close, both arms tight around her body. “Never doubt that.”

She never would again.





ILLUSION


Isla fiddled with the petals on her bodice. That night was Copia. She had helped the Starling tailor make her dress. For fabric, she had bloomed hundreds of flowers, weaving their stems together, blanketing them across his shop floor.

A hand covered her own to stop the picking. It swallowed her own and pressed against her chest in a way that made her suddenly forget whatever errant thought was circling in her mind.

“Flowers don’t pick themselves, remember?” he said, repeating her own drunken words from the Centennial. She hadn’t known he had heard that part.

She smiled and turned to face him. He was golden, in his most official of outfits for the occasion. Isla smoothed the silk of his shirt that required no smoothing whatsoever. “What about kings? Do they pick flowers?”

Oro’s expression was pure promise when he leaned down to say right into her ear, “Only when the flower picks them.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to cut me out of this dress.” She turned for him. “See? No strands. No buttons.” In fact, she had molded the dress to herself. With Leto’s instructions to his design, she had woven the dress around her, the flowers coming together, clasping tight, their stems locking her in.

Another fact was that she could certainly undo the dress herself as well, but the alternative was so much more enjoyable.

“Hmm,” Oro said, his voice getting deeper. His mouth brushed against her bare shoulder. His fingers trailed down her spine, where corset ties might have been were this a traditional dress. They did not stop. She felt the heat of his hand sweep across the base of her back before gripping her hip bone. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said.

“Are you sure?” She blinked innocently at him over her shoulder. “If you’re too busy with your kingly duties, I can ask someone else . . .”

He took her chin in his hand. Tilted her head up to his, so he could say right against her lips, “Tonight, my only kingly duties involve my mouth and whatever you wear beneath a dress like this.”