Page 55 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood
Harrow grins, flicking his tongue out and wiggling it suggestively. My thighs tense at the memory of those motions against my core.
The smile drops, replaced by a dark smirk. He leans in, mouth roving along my neck. He stops when he reaches my scar. “Why do you keep it hidden?”
The question zaps the heat building low in my stomach. “So people won’t think I’m damaged.”
He pushes back far enough to be able to look deep into my eyes. “Never hide it again. Any man would be goddamned lucky to marry you and any kingdom would be all the better for having you as their queen. A scar doesn’t change who you are.”
I deflect, reaching for his lower back. “The same can be said about you.” His back goes taut. I briefly touch the scars before moving to his wings. “I love these.”
He opens his wings to their full width. They smack into my armoire, sending jewelry and perfume bottles crashing to the floor.
My outburst of laughter has him scowling. He growls, tucking his wings back in. “Think something’s funny, Roseheart?”
“You don’t fit in here.”
Harrow rolls on top of me, pinning me to the bed. His hand snakes between my thighs. “But I do fit in here.”
My body arches into him. “Damn you. You have got to stop doing that. If you never let me out of bed, I’m going to forget how to walk.”
“Well, when your legs have atrophied from lack of use, you’re welcome to rest them permanently on my shoulders.” He flashes me one of his wicked grins. Rolling off the comforter, he stands. This time he opens his wings more carefully. His arms lift high above his head as he stretches, showing off his muscular torso.
His wings open fully in either direction before settling loosely behind him. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
“Thank you for all the feathers. They’re yours, right? From your wings? Not your birds?”
He nods. “Each one plucked with care. Care and a tinge of madness. What do you do with them?”
“They’re tucked away in my jewelry box.”
He locates the ruby-studded box and opens it. A smile lines his face as he sorts through them, running a finger along each in greeting. Harrow stops on one particular feather. Raising it to his face, he inhales deeply. The look he gives me sends heat rushing inside me.
“Lenore.” He lifts the feather up. “Care to explain why this has been between your thighs?”
Mortification fills me so full I may burst into a puddle and die. How the hell does he know about that?
“Uh, no. I do not care to explain.”
Harrow cocks his head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
No, he shouldn’t have.
“Because not telling me was not an option. Let me rephrase”—he stalks toward me, still holding the feather—“tell me why this was between your thighs.”
“Can we drop this?” I squirm beneath the covers.
“No, I don’t think we can.”
“I was just messing around.” He raises his brows expectantly, leaving silence between us that’s so unbearable I finally break. “I wanted to see if I could make those things you did to me happen myself.”
Harrow smirks. “With a feather?”
I pull the sheets over my face. “This is mortifying.”
My eyes remain tightly shut as the sheet is dragged away. The bed dips as Harrow’s weight settles on either side of my knees. “Were you able to do it?”
“No. The guards startled me. I chickened out.” I can’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see that gorgeous face staring down at me while I’m poppy red.
Harrow’s hand slides between my knees, pressing them open. The soft touch of a feather against my inner thigh has my eyes shooting open.
