He motioned toward himself. “I’m fine,” he said.
Isla swallowed. “I can see that.” She straightened. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Her gaze slipped down his bare chest. She had seen him without a shirt before, of course she had, but she hadn’t ever allowed herself to truly study him this way. Now, she took all of him in.
He looked etched out of marble. Every muscle was defined by training, cut perfectly. His shoulders were wide. She studied him, and part of her ached to keep watching, to get closer, to touch him—
His words from the ball were right. Late at night, she sometimes thought of him, of his hands, rough against the softest parts of her.
In her imagination, she followed the muscled lines of his stomach, lower, lower, only to awake gasping.
Now he was right here, and he wanted her. She could see the evidence of it, right there in front of her.
She looked away. Suddenly the wall behind him looked very interesting. There was a mirror there, and she saw herself, standing very stiffly in her red dress. She studied her reflection, wondering what could have possibly made him want her in that way when she wasn’t doing anything special, she was just standing there, in a dress she often just wore to sleep.
The straps were thin; the bodice was overflowing. Her dress clung to her. It was more revealing than she had previously realized.
Isla looked to Grim. He was looking at her like she was the world, and he wanted to conquer it. For a second, she felt brave. Powerful, in a strange new way.
She stepped toward him.
Grim stood unnaturally still.
Her hand pressed against his chest. Her fingers were trembling. His skin was cold and hard as stone. Isla wasn’t sure if he was breathing. His eyes were hungry, devouring her, taking in every inch of skin. She bit her bottom lip.
He studied her mouth, and she didn’t want him to keep looking, she wanted him to do something.
She stepped forward, until every part of her pressed against every part of him. Her fingers did not shake any longer as she traced the large scar in the center of his chest. His reminder of her. Her hand ran lower. Lower.
Lower.
“Hearteater,” he said, voice strained. The word was a warning.
She met his gaze. His eyes held all sorts of dark promises, and she wanted them all.
He was too tall. Too far away. She went on her toes to reach him, but she still could not.
She frowned and fell back onto her heels. He desired her, that much was clear. She felt like a flame, like she might just simply burn away if he didn’t extinguish this feeling building inside her, this insatiable want—
Grim had told her he wouldn’t touch her unless she begged. Back then, she had promised herself that wouldn’t happen.
Now, she was ready to go on her knees before him.
“Touch me,” she said, her voice just a whisper. “Please.”
Grim didn’t move an inch. He stood almost impossibly still.
Isla frowned. Did she have to say it again? She ran her hands lower, as if to show him exactly what she meant. Until she could almost feel all of him. “Please, Grim, would you just touch—”
Before her sentence was over, his mouth was on hers. The kiss was punishing, exploring, unrelenting. He tilted her head back, hands cradling her neck, thumbs brushing across her throat.
She made a sound into his mouth, and he seemed to like it, because he growled and bit her bottom lip before swiping his tongue over the hurt. She was on fire; everything burned, some places more than others, and she needed those hands, that tongue, everywhere. Now.
He broke their kiss and looked down at her. She looked down too. Her nightdress was pulled so low, she was nearly spilling out of it. Her chest was heaving.
Grim looked at her body like he was committing it to memory. “You know, I really like this dress,” he murmured. He traced the neckline. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and Isla gasped at the cold, then moaned as he traced every inch of her chest. “But it’s in my way.”
He gripped the silky fabric with both hands. He paused, looking at her as if for approval, and when she gave it, he ripped it right down the center. Stitches broke; fabric was torn.
He kept going, until her nightdress was nothing more than shreds of fabric on the floor.
And she stood naked in front of him.
No one had ever seen her this way. Isla was burning, ready.
But all he did was look at her. For far too long, he just stared.
Was something . . . was something wrong with her? Was he not attracted to her? Had they gone too far already?
Isla began covering her body with her hands. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs, embarrassment heating her face.
“Is . . . something wrong?” she finally asked.
Grim laughed. It made her want to crawl into a hole. But then he said, in a tone so earnest and gentle that she believed him, “Nothing, absolutely nothing, is wrong with you, Hearteater.”
He removed her hands covering her chest and replaced them with his own. She stood and groaned as his calluses stroked against the softest and hardest parts of her skin, as his hands pulled and explored. Then, he lowered his head and did the same thing with his mouth.
Isla’s head fell back. She had never felt so sensitive, all her senses zeroing in on the strokes of his tongue on the peaks of her chest, on his mouth taking everything in.
His hand traveled down her stomach. Before he reached the place she wanted him, he paused, again waiting for her approval.
She parted her legs, giving it, then gasped as his fingers finally touched her right there—
He felt her own want for him and made a deep sound that rasped against the back of her mind.
“Are you always like this around me?” he asked.
Isla gasped again, then glared at him. He only grinned.
“You certainly think highly of yourself,” she said, breathless. Grim explored her with his hand, and she moaned.
“It’s hard not to, when I can feel the effect I have on you. Tell me, Hearteater, has anyone ever touched you like this?”
He knew the answer. He must. The demon just wanted to hear her say the words. She ignored him. Her eyes fluttered closed, as he pressed—
“Is it just me who elicits this response?”
Her head fell back as he kept circling. Her chest was bare to him.
“No need to reply,” he said. “The sounds you’re making are all the confirmation I need.”
She scowled. “You just like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” His fingers slid lower, and her breath hitched.
“I do. But I like to hear you talk more. So, tell me.” He stopped suddenly. Withdrew his hand. “Are you always like this around me?” he repeated.
She scoffed at him. “Are you always this desperate for validation?”
“No. Not from anyone. Only you.”
She blinked, surprised by the admission.
“If you want me to continue, answer my question,” he said. He was breathing just as quickly as she was, chest heaving. “Please,” he added.
Isla knew he wasn’t used to saying that word at all. Yet, now he had said it to her multiple times.
Part of her wanted to portal away. Leave them both unfulfilled. But right now, the way he was looking at her . . .
She felt truly powerful for one of the first times in her life.
“Yes,” she said, and took great pleasure in watching his eyes burn even brighter in intensity. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Leaned in until her lips brushed his ear as she said, “Always.”