The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(97)

My shirt was rucked up around my ribs. I reached under its hem—hooked a finger in my trousers.

Dragged them off my legs until I was bare.

Rory stood at the edge of the bed, waylaid by the sight of me. His eyelids lowered to half mast, and the sight of his unveiled desire made me even bolder. I sat up on my elbows. Held his eyes. Reached for my shirt.

Undid its clasps one by one.

I’d never been entirely naked in front of anyone before. Not the Diviners, not the abbess—not even in my dreams. I’d always worn the shield, the anonymity, of my shroud.

Save once. When I dreamed of the moth.

Rory did what I asked of him. He didn’t say anything at all—the room silent but for our heavy breathing. I felt it in my body when my tunic fell away and he saw me entirely bare. Felt it when his eyes, awestruck and obsidian black, roved the length of me. When the air grew heated, taut.

“Your turn.”

Rory took his lacing in a fist—ripped it free. When he shrugged out of his shirt, muscles bunching, my gaze was an eager traveler. It trailed down his neck, over the lines of his abdomen, down to his navel.

Down the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his pants.

He looked just like he had the night we’d first met. Half-naked. A mess of sweat and ungodly good looks. Only now, derision had been mastered by desire.

I bit my lip. Nodded at his pants. “Those too.”

His thumb dipped into the waist of his pants. Rory held my eyes. Grinned.

Then took his thumb back out.

“You’re teasing me?”

He shrugged.

“Not very knightly of you.”

His eyelids lowered.

“Hmm.” I pressed upright onto my palms. “What if I took them off for you?” I pulled my legs beneath me. Pushed up. Got on my knees.

His entire body flexed. The sound of air, rushing out of his mouth, was profane. I reached for his pants—

It happened fast. One moment I was on my knees, and the next Rory’s hands were under my arms—lifting me. Putting me once more onto my back.

He crawled over me, breaking his promise of silence only once. “First, you unravel,” he rasped against my ear, then pressed me into his pillows with a ferocious kiss. And I thought I must be the stupidest woman alive, that I’d spent so much time fighting with him when I could have been fighting with his lips instead.

Rory liked it. Kissing. I could tell. He cupped my jaw, fingertips pressing into my cheeks, making my lips pucker for him. He kissed me wetly, worshipfully, and I—I was gasping. I tried to put all my eager sounds back behind the wall of my teeth. But Rory seemed to know I was made tense, denying myself, denying him, because his focus drifted from my mouth to my jaw, as if to soften it with kisses.

He kissed the column of my throat, then roved over affected skin—the bite marks the Ardent Oarsman had left. Those he paid particular attention to. Like his wet inner lip, his tongue, could undo the violence the Omen had tended me. Like he wanted more than to merely kill gods—he wanted to cleanse me of them.

Yes. Rory liked kissing.

Or maybe he just liked kissing me.

Pressing his forehead over my sternum, he laid his mouth over my breasts. Kissed and sighed over them.

I rolled my hips. Ran my pelvis over his. Heard the rush of his breath. I did that again, then once more, imagining us as knights, sparring in a yard. Sweaty and fighting, pressing and grunting in the dirt. “Myndacious.”

I felt his lips curl into a smile over my left breast. He kissed it. Nipped it.

My voice was strangled. “If you don’t bed me now, I’m going to scream.”

He raised himself. Looked me over. Hair fell in errant waves over his brow. And his mouth—his mouth was swollen. Even in the dim light, I could see his pulse racing in his neck. Hear the ragged intake of his breaths.

He looked halfway to satisfaction, prolonging mine.

And that realization—

“In the Seacht.” My hand found his shoulders, drawing him up closer. “Just before you measured me for armor. When you sparred in the yard, dirty and unbridled.” I wrapped my legs around his waist. Put my mouth over that thrumming pulse in his neck. “You looked so ignoble.” I sucked his skin. Pressed my teeth into it. Said, almost frantic—“I thought I’d die if I couldn’t have you.”

Rory made a tormented sound. Took me by the nape of the neck and hauled me onto his lap.

I straddled him, legs swung around his hips. We sat eye to eye, and for frayed moment did nothing but breathe. I was unguarded without my shroud, split wide open beneath his gaze, like a limestone beneath a hammer. Rory held me tightly, grasping the nape of my neck with one hand while the other drifted down my spine in a long, devoted caress.

All the while, he kept his eyes on mine. Held them with the same care he tended my body.

And that… obliterated a keystone in my wall.

“I take it back.” I raked my fingers through his hair. “Say something. Say anything.”

There was only one fitting thing.

Rory kissed me in a way no story can properly express. “Sybil.”

He pressed me with both hands—fingers weaving into my hair and also low, over my bottom. “Whatever it was that made you sigh in your room that night after the hot spring… I’ve thought about it, too. I’ve thought about it a thousand times.” He squeezed the flesh of my backside. “I’ve thought about your thighs. How they felt when I measured them for armor. What it would be like, putting my mouth between them.” His hand withdrew, then snapped back—a quick smack across my bottom that made us both moan. “I’ve thought about your voice. I’ve stayed up, thinking about it. Wondering if it would be sharp or soft when I made you come.” His throat worked. “I’ve thought such unknightly things.”