Page 37 of Tempt

Lounging against the passage wall, Malice wears a leather V-neck shirt as glossy as black licorice and ornamented with fine whiplashes of chain. His jeans have been replaced with onyx hose, a customary choice in Peaks, while the black boots studded with hardware reflect his tastes from the mortal realm.

Grinning, he flaunts her silken robe and fondles the sleeves. “You’ve got feminine taste.”

She grouses, “And you’re a toddler.”

“How many times do I need to remind you? I’m the devil. I like being the devil. It’s so devilish of me. By the way, I think we’re even now. And to clarify, I wasn’t spying. I grabbed this dainty little thing while barely seeing your head above water.”

“I didn’t take anything from your saddlebag.”

It’s a lie, but he doesn’t know that. Right?

Malice trails off, going oddly silent while she stomps up to him, exposing herself in the beams of green light. Her fingers swipe the garment from his hands. To her surprise, it’s easy to do. He hadn’t even bothered to get vexed and hold it out of reach.

Why? Oh, she sees why.

Malice’s eyes dip down her body, the curves trussed up in sheer cloth and speckled with wet spots. She becomes hyperaware of the beads licking down her neck, her breasts pumping against the textile, and the flush of her complexion. This compact area reduces her oxygen supply, and his breathing has a new weight to it, which increases in frequency.

He’s astonished. But what had he expected? For her to be dry and fully clothed?

Yes, he had. She’s a fool, irritation having overwhelmed logic. It had been a harmless jest, since she could have conjured a replacement for the robe. She hadn’t needed to traverse the Archives naked. If she hadn’t taken leave of her senses, she’d have drawn that rudimentary conclusion.

His smug features lose their mirth. The more his eyes trace her, the more acute the sensation. The more droplets seep into the cloth, the more gluttonous his expression becomes.

She feels every sweep of his gaze. The tick in his jaw matches the one in her pulse. Her thighs tighten, a rawness building at their juncture, as if her very survival hinges upon this moment.

The boy from history nudges to the forefront of her mind. How long has she dreamed of him looking at her this way, with the sort of disorderly hunger that makes her want to bite something?

Step closer. Unwind the garment and see if he’s capable of blushing, like he used to be.

Malice rakes a hand through his hair, and those gilded waves spring back into place. Unfortunately, a second later, vulgarity rinses the awe from his face. Even if she could tap into his emotions, she doesn’t need to—not as the dark, self-indulgent taste of wine floods her palate. It’s a sensual slide down her throat, tainted with lust and lechery.

Any moment, he’s going to say something perverse just to aggravate her.

Malice ridicules, “I take it my gibe derailed you. What a productive morning.”

Wonder huffs, “I’m not going to shower you with attention.”

“And I’m not going to shower you with discretion,” he spews. “It’s not my problem if your tits are soaked and jiggling in my face. If you don’t want it to happen again, then get your shit together and remember your magic. Don’t make yourself an easy target.”

“Enough, or I’ll declaw you!”

“In my sleep, no doubt.”

“Think again. We’ve established more than once that I can trounce you while you’re awake, with your eyes wide open. So take my advice and put away your arsenal.”

Gliding his tongue across his incisors, Malice backs Wonder against the wall. The proximity causes his shirt to brush the damp cloth scarcely concealing her nudity.

How can a moment be infuriating and stimulating at the same time?

How can someone be dear yet damning?

Malice’s pupils dilate. His palms make a loud and theatrical smack against the stone on either side of her head. “But I haven’t even whipped my arsenal out yet,” he intones with a sneer, his breath a drizzle across her lips.

In a flash, Wonder drops the robe and flips them around. His back hits the slab, a sound of surprise lurching from him, which turns into a hiss when she clamps onto his pinky nail and exerts pressure, threatening to yank the talon from its root.

There’d been a time when seeing him hurt would have been unthinkable. Most times, it still is. Just not now.

“Go ahead,” she speaks through her teeth. “Try it.”

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