Page 76 of Tempt

She likes doing the same to him, so she beats her hips backward, inciting a raspy moan. His forehead lands against her neck in supplication, that tenor jostling from his tongue and sinking into her head. He hunches over, wrestling to keep his grip on the rail while pitching his hips forward, matching the leisurely glide of her own form.

Immortality fortifies them. Case in point, they’ve been at this escapade for an industrious thirty minutes, and they’re going strong enough that Wonder prepares herself for another hour or two of this madness.

“Please,” he begs into her flesh. “Please tell me.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, like that.”

That spurs him on, and he cups her breasts. And they keep doingthat, andthat, andthat.

Soon, they’ll need to eat and drink—and calm the Fates down. Not yet, though. Their cries convulse as a breeze slips through the hall, buffeting curtains and lanterns.

Public displays are common within casual settings of the Peaks, but not within formal institutions. Malice and Wonder would be flayed, degraded, judged. They would be deemed degenerates, misfits.

They would be called flawed. They would be likened to humans, with their imperfections and double standards…and hearts.

Fine by Wonder. She’s not giving up this version of her soul.

But she does vow to cleanse the balustrade with a cloth later. She’ll make Malice help her, as she’s done in every nook and cranny they’ve corrupted.

Outside the glass panes, constellations glitter, celebrating the day’s end. It had been a productive one in the arts and recreation section until Malice had given her thatlook. Or maybe Wonder had been the culprit, when she appraised his figure as he’d combed through his hair, the action pulling his shirt taut across the bluff of his chest. Maybe it had been when he’d caught her admiring him like that.

“That wandering gaze,” he’d complimented, tossing aside his choice of reading material.

And this is the result.

In between mewls, Wonder voices a wish. “At some point…we need…to do this…in a bed.”

Malice lifts his head, a smile curling through his voice. “Now where’s—”

“—the fun in that?” she finishes.

On a grunt of feigned outrage, he changes his mind. Wonder yips as he pulls out of her, encircles her middle, and hauls her against his torso. He proceeds to carry her back to the dormitory like this, her legs flopping, her laughter ringing through the corridors while Malice’s gifted tenor hums an impish tune in her ears.

In her room, they plummet onto the mattress in a fit of hysterics. Wonder lands atop Malice, her limbs astride his waist, their stomachs pumping. Her tresses spill all over his damp skin, and their hands clasp on either side of Malice’s head.

Wonder drinks him in. She counts the ways in which this demon has become dear to her, like when he produces books on topics that she muses about, or when he spoils her with blackberries in the mornings, as they’ve taken to sharing her bed.

He hasn’t had a nightmare since. And she sleeps through the night.

In defiance of their nature, they rest every evening, sleeping bare and fastened together. Once, she’d awakened to his mouth on her breast. Another dawn, he’d awakened to her mounting his abdomen. So much teasing and temptation in this room.

However, those specific events hadn’t led to consummation. They have exerted themselves in numerous corners, except in their chambers.

Until now.

Celestials trickle into the dorm and sprinkle the linens. Wonder inhales the perfume of the wisteria headband cinched in her hair, the only item that she’s wearing.

“I’m addicted to you,” he says, grabbing her face and plying her with restless kisses at her temple. “Your mind.” The inside of her bicep. “Your nerve.” The pulp of her scars. “Your resilience.”

Wonder pecks his lips. “Your daring. Your candor. Your humor.” Then she inches backward to gaze at him. “I wish you could see where I lived here. My home across the glen, over the tranquil pools. My favorite meditation spot, where my Guide taught me the art of breath. I wish that I could see where you lived here, too. All the places that matter to you.”

“Really?” Malice asks. “You mean that?”

Of course. Why wouldn’t she?

On a branch outside the window, the likeness of a mortal nightingale chirps a melody.

Malice’s ashen eyes jump all over Wonder, not like cinders but rather embers—desperate and erratic in their movements. He hunts for a sign from her countenance, some type of verification.

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