Page 53 of Nightbane
He was a man unleashed. Suddenly, his shirt and her underthings were on the floor, and his hands were on her chest. In the dark, all her focus narrowed to the heat of his touch as his calluses lightly brushed across the most sensitive parts of her skin. She seemed to melt against him, making all sorts of sounds as he swept his knuckles down her bare stomach and murmured in her ear. “Tell me what you like, love,” he said. “Show me.”
“Here,” she said, squirming. She found his hand and started to guide it down again. “Please.”
But his fingers were long and practiced and needed little direction, even though he seemed to enjoy the sight of her hand over his. When he was right where she needed him, she reached back to weave her fingers behind his neck and said, “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
His lips were right over hers; his breath was hot against her skin, and he groaned as she began moving on him.
Her head fell back and she made a sound that he seemed to like, because he kissed across her pulse. He knew where to touch her, where to linger, where to explore.
It only took moments for her to be panting and at the edge of the world, and nothing had ever felt this good, this sweet. “Oro, I—” she said, because she could feel sparks traveling up her spine.
“Not yet,” he said. He kept going, and she gasped as his teeth scraped lightly up her neck, until he reached her ear. “I want you so much I think it might actually kill me,” he whispered, before he curled his fingers, and the world shattered around her. He held her close, both arms tight around her body. “Never doubt that.”
She never would again.
ILLUSION
Isla fiddled with the petals on her bodice. That night was Copia. She had helped the Starling tailor make her dress. For fabric, she had bloomed hundreds of flowers, weaving their stems together, blanketing them across his shop floor.
A hand covered her own to stop the picking. It swallowed her own and pressed against her chest in a way that made her suddenly forget whatever errant thought was circling in her mind.
“Flowers don’t pick themselves, remember?” he said, repeating her own drunken words from the Centennial. She hadn’t known he had heard that part.
She smiled and turned to face him. He was golden, in his most official of outfits for the occasion. Isla smoothed the silk of his shirt that required no smoothing whatsoever. “What about kings? Do they pick flowers?”
Oro’s expression was pure promise when he leaned down to say right into her ear, “Only when the flower picks them.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to cut me out of this dress.” She turned for him. “See? No strands. No buttons.” In fact, she had molded the dress to herself. With Leto’s instructions to his design, she had woven the dress around her, the flowers coming together, clasping tight, their stems locking her in.
Another fact was that she could certainly undo the dress herself as well, but the alternative was so much more enjoyable.
“Hmm,” Oro said, his voice getting deeper. His mouth brushed against her bare shoulder. His fingers trailed down her spine, where corset ties might have been were this a traditional dress. They did not stop. She felt the heat of his hand sweep across the base of her back before gripping her hip bone. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said.
“Are you sure?” She blinked innocently at him over her shoulder. “If you’re too busy with your kingly duties, I can ask someone else ...”
He took her chin in his hand. Tilted her head up to his, so he could say right against her lips, “Tonight, my onlykingly dutiesinvolve my mouth and whatever you wear beneath a dress like this.”
Isla’s eyes were still the height of innocence as she said, “So, your mouth and ... nothing?”
Oro cursed, and heat filled the room. They were standing in front of a mirror. She turned her head and watched him look at her like she was the most precious thing in all the realms. And she ...
She looked happy. Shewashappy. Her mind had emptied of most of its anxious thoughts. How had that happened?
Oro had happened. He had taken all her broken pieces in his hands and vowed to one day make them whole. He had been patient. Kind. Loving.
Inside, Isla now had a pocket of peace. A slice of sunlight. It was an anchor. If her thoughts ever spiraled, in her darkest hours, she would return here, to this moment she tucked away in that pocket.
Before, she had felt unmoored, betrayed, like she didn’t truly have a home.
Now,hefelt like home.
“Look,” she said, fishing a thin golden chain from beneath her dress. The small golden rose hung there, in the center of her chest. She’d made a necklace of it. “It’s heavy, but—”
“You kept it,” he said, almost in awe, his brows coming together. Oro swept his fingers over it, and it became lighter, as if hollowed.
“Of course I kept it,” she said. “It’s us. A rose surrounded in gold.”
Oro didn’t seem to care that he was disrupting all the petals on her dress as he lifted her up.
