Page 59 of Unholy Gambit: Checkmate in Blood
He didn’t rush. Just cradled the meat over his palm, offering it between the fingers of the other hand, and she leaned forward to accept the rare delicacy.
The warmth of his skin met her lips a split second before the duck, and then the flavors hit.
Rich. Silken. Sweet.
Cherry and fowl and something deeper, darker — like earth after rain and secrets buried too long. The Truffe noire du Périgord unexpectedly hit next, not taste so much asscentcurling up into her brain, making her dizzy.
She moaned before she meant to. And hesmiled. Not with arrogance, with satisfaction.
Another bite. He fed her slow. Fingers brushing her mouth. His thumb ghosting the edge of her lower lip, gathering sauce and lifting it to her tongue. Heat traveled lower in her body.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss her. He fed her bite after bite, somehow making each a little sexier than the last. More heat. More lust. More taste. More sensation.
He watched her with eyes like heat made solid when he lifted the final bite to her mouth. All the flavors again, maybe a little more truffles and less cherry, which made it even more perfect.
He’d bled for her, and now he was offering her pleasure from the same hands he’d offered up to the horrible shackles.
When she finished the last bite, she opened her mouth to speak — to thank him, or maybe to say something clever.
But he leaned in, eyes low, and whispered, “Not yet, dear Aurélie. We’ve barely started our evening, and it’s time for me to unwrap you, for our second course.”
He reached under the far edge of the plate and retrieved a small packet of wipes. No performance. No pretense. Just aquiet practicality as he cleaned the cherry-truffle sauce from his hands.
“You used different soap,” he noted. “Ruby’s doing, I’m guessing. I’ll have to send her a bouquet of wildflowers tomorrow. You smell of the Fae and roses with the barest hints of anise and vanilla. Spice and temptation.”
She laughed, breathless. A little flushed. He could feel her thoughts, flickering between self-consciousness and wild arousal.
He reached out, threaded his fingers through hers, and pulled her gently to her feet.
“Come.”
The soft fur rug in front of the fireplace waited; pale cream, thick-piled, so gentle underfoot it silenced her shoes. She bent to take them off, and he knelt again, brushing her hands away to do it for her.
When he rose, he walked a slow circle around her — his fingers grazing the curve of her arm, the edge of her hip, the small of her back.
He stopped behind her, lifted the zipper, pulled it down. Slowly, but without hesitation.
Unwrapping a present, he’d said.
When it slid from her body, he caught it before it hit the floor, helped her step out of it, and draped it over a nearby chair.
Then… silence.
And heat.
Ruby had insisted on taking her shopping. Had made her buy a little black lace thong and a matching bra that cost more than completeoutfits, but now that she stood in it, his eyes taking her in, his body still as a statue, and she thought maybe Ruby needed more than wildflowers tomorrow. She’d bake her a damned black chocolate cake with salted caramel buttercream frosting.
His voice dropped into gravel. “Lovely, darling Aurélie.”
She needed to say something back, but didn’t know the protocol. “I wasn’t sure we’d… I mean, I hoped. But I didn’t want to look—”
“Perfect,” he finished, his hands hovering just inches from her. “You look perfect.”
She didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t him sinking to his knees, placing a kiss on her navel, then another, lower, right on top of the tiny little triangle of lace.
He eased her down onto the rug, one hand under her back, the other bracing her knee so she wouldn’t strain it. The fire popped. Not roaring, but alive. Contained. Like him.
And then he kissed her.
