Page 35 of Straw and Gold
I huffed again in the most unladylike manner, leaning back but refusing to move further. “I am not.”
“You are,” he repeated.
His face hovered over mine and my heart beat wildly at the heat of his body so close. He carried not a wrinkle nor fine line, his face an ode to a marble carving, chiseled over years to perfection. If he was seven years older than me, he didn’t look it. Faekind spent most of their lives appearing to be around thirty years old until they hit a few centuries and began to age dramatically. “How—” I swallowed hard, regaining my breath. “How old are you again?”
His lips parted slowly. “How old do you think I am, Goldling?”
“By the way you speak to me?” I snapped. “Five.”
He hummed low, his fingers trailing the side of my shirt before he gripped the loose fabric in his hand. “And how old do you think I am by the way I look at you?”
My breath caught in my chest and he posed his face directly over mine, pulling on the fabric of my makeshift dress until my body was flush with his. He looked at me with nothing short of lust—of desire and want—all the things I’d felt since knowing him. I grabbed his forearms, not pushing him away but not exactly pulling him closer, either.
“Moh Dhóches,” he whispered.
“Tell me what it means,” I breathed.
“You will learn,” he said simply, shifting his hand to rest underneath my backside. He blinked several times, almost shaking his head, adding, “And you will rest.”
He lifted me and I squeaked, finding myself hauled over his shoulder, his arm wrapped around the back of my thighs. He turned with me like a sack of potatoes—awingedsack of potatoes—and ignored my half-hearted protest as we left the stairwell.
I’d never been carried like this before. Certainly never by my only previous lover, Brekkan Dioltry. And certainly not by my practical husband whose thumb continuously rubbed the soft skin of my inner thigh. Could he tell I loved this? Did he know that my small protest and cursing was nothing more than a show? If he only knew that I’d rather he carried me around this way often, preferably into his great big bed so he could devour me whole until I didn’t know either one of our names.
As soon as the stone hall produced a wooden door, we were through it, shifting through two more until he stepped out of our own and lowered me to the floor. I clasped his forearms tightly, regaining my footing.
He jerked his head. “Bed. Now.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “You don’t have to be so Goddessdamn grumpy about it.”
I thought I heard a chuckle but didn’t turn around. The truth was, I really did need rest. I shuffled to my bed and slumped, kicking off my shoes, tossing the belt onto his bed, and pulling my sheets over my body.
“You’re sleeping in my shirt?” he asked, sliding out of his jacket and hanging it back into his wardrobe.
I smoothed my cheek onto the pillow, closing my eyes and murmuring, “It’s this or naked, husband.”
“Go to sleep, Morella,” he muttered somewhere near my bed.
“Stop talking, then.”
“Córrch, Moh Dhóches.”
“I’llrestwhen you stay quiet.”
The bed sagged and his hand grazed my cheek. I peeked one eye open.
“What did you say?” he asked in a wide grin, staring down at me like I was a Goddessdamn blessing of a wife.
“What?” I stumbled, turning to lie on my back.
“How did you know ‘córrch’ means ‘rest’?”
“Fucking hell, Killian.” I grabbed the first volume ofCéaduah, Language of the Changelingfaefrom somewhere beneath my sheets and chucked it into his lap.
He caught it in his hands, that stupid grin there again. “You catch on quickly.”
“That one doesn’t count,” I mumbled, my eyelids drifting. He quirked a brow and I continued through a yawn. “That compliment—you’ve given me that one already.”
A deep rumble came from his chest and he locked me in—both of his arms on either side of me, pushing into the bed. “Am I not allowed to repeat my compliments?”
