Page 82 of Shadows of Stardust

Carefully, methodically, he goes to work.

For a moment, a pulse of unease rings discordantly through me, enough to chase away the haze of pleasure. Zan parts thefront of my dress, eyes roving over each inch of skin he exposes, and I’m worried he’ll forget. I’m worried he’ll try to slide it the rest of the way off, and although he saw me naked earlier, I’m… not sure I’m ready for that.

I haven’t slept with anyone since my injury, and while objectively I know there’s nothing wrong with me—that it’s just skin, just scar tissue, nothing to be ashamed of—I’ll be damned if I can make my stupidly tender heart believe that.

But it turns out I don’t have to worry.

When the dress slouches loose and open—leaving my chest completely bare since I decided to forgo a bra tonight—Zan pulls back.

It makes me feel even more vulnerable, but only for as long as it takes to see the look on his face.

I must be getting better at reading his stoic Revexoran features, because the harsh press of his lips as he sucks in a deep breath, the lowering of his brow, the absolute focus in his black eyes, makes the bottom of my belly knot with pleasure.

He raises one hand and cups my breast, squeezing gently, soothing strokes over my nipple with his thumb, and I can’t help myself. I arch into him, a moan slipping from my lips.

He chuckles, low and knowing. “I take it you like this? I’ve read these can be… sensitive. For human women.”

Oh, god.

Of course he’s read about human anatomy.

Of course he’d want to know all my weaknesses, all my vulnerabilities, all the ways he might take me apart.

My cheeks heat, but I’m not about to argue or disagree with him as he lowers his head and fastens his lips around my nipple, thumb still circling those maddening strokes around the other.

“Yes,” I breathe, grabbing for his horns to pull him closer. “Yes. God. Oh my god, that feels—”

My words break off in a rush of breath. I almost lose my balance and go toppling back onto the counter in my enthusiasm, but Zan’s right there. One arm slung low around my back, he keeps me upright, keeps me with him, gives me something to lean on as he lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, testing pressure, tempo, seeing what works best.

Joke’s on him, though, because all of it works best.

All ofhimworks best. The intensity of his focus. The steady strength of him against me. It all works so unfortunately well that I can’t stop myself from bucking against him, trying to get a little more friction, trying… trying…

“Do you need more?” he asks, lips still hovering over one swollen, peaked nipple. “Because my research led me to a few other ideas for how I might—”

“Oh, my god,” I say, less in pleasure this time than in sinfully sweet mortification that creeps in a warm rush up my cheeks, over my chest, lower.

Not that I mind. Not really.

Maybe I’ll feel differently about this tomorrow in the stark light of day, but tonight I can’t feel anything but an undeniable thrill from that small embarrassment. From knowing he thought about this, that maybe he’sbeenthinking about it just as much as I have.

A devastatingly handsome smirk spreads across his lips as he reaches for the hem of my dress and slides it slowly up my thighs.

“You were magnificent tonight, do you know that?” he asks, leaning in to murmur the words into the overheated skin just below my ear. “On the beach. Claiming what’s yours. Letting everyone know I’m spoken for. You were magnificent.”

His words slide through my veins, warm and syrupy and impossible.

I know what he means.

He means I put on a good show. I earned us some brownie points from the producers. I gave the cameras something to eat up and the editing team to salivate over. I bought us a little more time and goodwill and kept us in the game.

But that’s not what I hear.

I hear the rough satisfaction in his voice. The pride. The possessive edge that has me spreading wider for him as his fingers skate higher on my thigh to the place that’s hot and damp and aching for his touch.

Close, he’s so close, and a strained, desperate sound lodges in the back of my throat, only to be cut abruptly off by a harsh one from his.

Zan lets out what I can only describe as agrowl, and under any other circumstances, I might find that really, really hot. This particular growl, however, has an unmistakably displeased edge to it. When I compose myself enough to pull my face from where I’ve got it buried against the side of his neck, I find his expression darkened with frustration.

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