Page 151 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

A satisfied hum escaped before I could censor it. “I’m well aware.”

“Don’t gloat,” she said, but amusement softened her glare.

“I only state facts. You, however, should take notes, because I kept my power perfectly leashed when you—” I let the pause drag, savoring her blush “—wrapped that pretty hand around me in the training room this morning.”

She scoffed. “Congratulations on your iron self-restraint. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

I leaned forward. “Is that a challenge?”

“A… hypothesis.”

Servants replaced plates with roasted fowl. We discussed supply routes, troop morale, and the ethics of collapsing mountain passes. Respectable conversation laced with innuendo thick enough to drown in. When an indecent mountain ofchocolate arrived for dessert, she closed her eyes on every spoonful, humming. I envied the spoon.

“Trying to get me drunk?” she teased when I refilled her goblet yet again.

“You’re dangerous enough sober,” I drawled. “Just watching you savor that chocolate makes me plan all sorts of indecent things.”

A servant reached between us for plates, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the china. The sensible man fled before I could threaten to flay him for existing.

Arabella rose with her wine and drifted to my side, perching her hip against the table so I had to tilt my head back. Silk stretched. My focus shattered.

“What are you doing?”

“All you have to do is say the word, Kaz, and we could christen this table.”

She was obviously still riding the high of our earlier victory over the Hero’s Guild emissary. I made a mental note to arrange more spectacular displays for her in front of my court. Arabella fed on that power as surely as I did.

“An enticing offer.” I let my gaze linger. “But ‘ley-line apocalypse’ still rings in my ears.”

She licked her bottom lip, and turned as if to move away. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t push our luck any further?—”

Her foot hooked on my chair. The goblet tipped. Dark red splashed across my shirt and pooled in my lap.

“Oh!” she gasped, hand to her mouth—pure theater. I watched as she set the glass aside and reached for a napkin.

I caught her wrist. “Not with the napkin.” My voice rasped.

Her eyebrows raised in question.

“Lick it off.” I released her.

For a moment, her eyes widened, but I saw excitement beneath that shock. “Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

She paused, studying me. I shoved my chair back from the table, wood scraping against stone in a discordant squeal. The two guards at the far end of the hall promptly stepped outside.

I settled into the seat with calculated ease, legs parted, arms draped along the carved rests. I’d rarely felt so on edge, but I hid it. Her smile dripped triumph as she sank to her knees before me, the silk puddling around her.

“You claim impeccable control,” she whispered, fingertips grazing my thighs. “Sure you want to test it?”

Arabella leaned in and pressed her tongue to my shirt, tasting the wine-soaked cloth with a deliberate flick. My breath caught, fists tightening around the armrests until they groaned under pressure. Each languid stroke of her tongue spread fire through me.

“You’re tense,” she purred. “Should I slow down?”

“Do your worst.”

She undid my buttons one by one, grazing my skin with each little tug, until my shirt gaped open. She surveyed the stains against my flesh, then dipped her head. Her tongue on my bare skin was torture, gentle flicks that followed rivulets of wine meandering over old scars. When she circled my navel, I sucked in a hard breath, trying not to groan. Every sense narrowed to the warm press of her mouth against me.

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