Page 80 of Shadows of Stardust

Ansalla has gone away, likely off somewhere to tend her wounded pride, and the rest of the beach is nearly silent as they watch our spectacle, expressions a mix of shock and disgust and envy.

With two notable exceptions.

Juni lets out a peel of laughter, clearly delighted for her friend. And Sella’s got the universe’s most self-satisfied look onher face, having obviously orchestrated this bold move for the cameras.

Roslyn leans in close. “Sorry. Too much?”

Not enough.

The words stick on my tongue. I swallow them, making myself remember this is all playacting.

Good playacting, too, as the party shakes itself of its collective stupor. The cameras capture their last shots of us and drift off to focus on whatever other drama the evening has in store.

“Have we earned our applause for tonight?” I ask, murmuring into her ear. “Or is a second act necessary?”

Roslyn huffs a soft laugh. “I think we’re good.”

I expect her to dislodge herself from my hold. She doesn’t. Instead, her thighs grip me more firmly, and when I tighten my fingers on the plush globes of her ass, she gasps.

Dangerous, that sound.

Almost as dangerous as the firelight glinting on some expression I can’t read. A little furrow between her brows, a tension written all over her face, something wanting and warning at the same time.

Keeping her right where she is, I stalk away from the party.

“Where are we going?” she whispers, eyes darting to the pair of cams that follow us into the Eritin night.

“The bungalow. Enough of this for tonight.”

The words come out rougher than I intended, but she doesn’t reply or try to get me to stop. No one else does, either, the producers apparently content to accept the two of us are off to our accommodations to continue things in private.

Climbing the bungalow’s front steps a few minutes later, I press her back into the door as I lean forward to activate the unlocking mechanism on the keypad. It spreads her thighs wider, shifts the skirt she’s wearing, and even through the softfabric of my shirt and the skimpy lace of her undergarments, the heat of her against my abdomen nearly scalds me.

I bite back a desperate groan.

Letting us inside the bungalow, I shut the door and hit the control pad next to it to activate the locks and my security protocols, but I don’t put Roslyn down.

I can’t.

Not when she’s still clinging to me, and not when the heat and the scent of her are doing something to my central nervous system.

Like a biologic weapon, a neuroreactive agent designed just for me, it seeps in and scrambles my wits, makes me forget everything but warmth and dew and lush, swollen blooms.

I turn and press her up against the inside of the front door.

Roslyn sucks in a sharp breath. She tilts her head back, eyes darting over my face.

“Tell me to stop.”

Another breath, this one decidedly less steady than the one that came before it. A tightening of her thighs around my hips.

“You have to tell me to stop,” I repeat, putting a growl behind the words so I know she’ll hear them. “There’s no one to perform for here. Nothing but you and me, Roslyn. If you want me to stop, tell me.”

23

Roslyn

“If you want me to stop, tell me.”

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