Page 104 of The Rebel and the Rose
Smiling, he pressed his lips against her jaw. ‘You’re glowing, Seraphine.’
And he was not afraid.
Nor was she. She was something else entirely – a lit flame, burning under his touch. Ripping off his waistcoat, she parted the buttons on his shirt, revealing the scarred planes of his broad, muscled chest. Every last inch marred with shadow-marks. A reminder of what he was. Dagger. Killer. Lover.
Mine.
The word throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Her hands moved, spanning the black whorls. All this irrefutable evidence of a killer, a blemished soul. She lowered her mouth to them, kissing the one on his left shoulder. He clutched her head, muttering unintelligibly as she used her tongue.
With his free hand, he deftly worked through the laces of her corset, tugging it free. It fell away, leaving them skin to skin.
Pressing his forehead against hers, he looked down. The marks on his chest were so dark against the soft glow of her own. She traced the darkest of them, following it down to the scar above his liver. The one she had given him.
With feather-light touches, she traced that too.
His voice was a throaty whisper now. ‘That one’s my favourite.’
How far they had come already. How far they would go.
‘Bastian,’ she whispered, as her hand inched lower. ‘Bed.’
Springing up at her command, he lifted her from the windowsill and carried her to the bed. There, he took her mouth again. The world faded, leaving them alone in the hazy glow of her magic. She sighed, letting it flow through her.
Their kiss grew frenzied, as though time itself was running out. Like there would never be enough of it. Greedy for friction, she ground herself against him. His hands found the swell of her breasts and he thumbed her in lazy decadent circles. Light erupted from her, the pureness of her pleasure burning away all inhibitions.
‘Saints.’ He dipped his chin, replacing his deft fingers with his tongue.
She stifled a cry, her gaze rolling back to the ceiling. He murmured against her skin, his kisses punctuated by throaty gasps as she ground against him, chasing the swell of her pleasure.
‘Yes, spitfire,’ he groaned, guiding her hips. ‘Just like that.’
It wasn’t enough. How could it ever be enough?
She was a flame, and he was burning for her. Begging for more. She pressed herself against him. ‘Bastian, I needmore.’
Her skirt hit the floor, like a pile of discarded rose petals, his trousers following in quick order. Then their underthings until there was only a slip of moonlight between them, and the glow of her magic and the dark shadow of his marks. Hemanoeuvred her until she was beneath him, the silver light making a silver crown around his head. With his jaw clenched and his lids heavy, he looked like a dark god drinking her in.
‘Saint or spitfire, let me worship you, Seraphine.’
With pleasure.
This time, when he kissed her, his fingers slipped between them, offering instant, unspeakable pleasure. Crying out, she arched her hips, and he grinned as he found her ready for him. His lids were low, her breath catching at the perfect pressure of his fingers, each masterful stroke making her heart gallop.
She shifted under him, until she could feel him too. They couldn’t go all the way, not without a tincture of herbs for protection, but they could have this pleasure – their hands moving feverishly against each other, their moans growing deep and frantic.
She quickened her pace, edging towards her own release.
His breath shallowed, chasing hers.
Words failed her. She couldn’t think beyond the thrum of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth moving on her. ‘Ransom, I’m going to…’
‘Look at me.’ He drew back, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I want to see you.’
She held his gaze, the pleasure climbing until it felt like a wave breaking under her skin. A cry built in her throat. His own breath stuttered, turning to a low animalistic moan.
‘Seraphine.’ He cried her name like a prayer, his back bowing as they both crested the wave together.
