Page 82 of Grim and Oro
Then she turns her gaze downward, as if assessing herself to determine what exactly caused my current state.
She doesn’t know, does she?
She doesn’t know what she does to me.
She doesn’t know that I’ve been almost constantly on edge since I’ve met her. She doesn’t know that I think of her every night, every time I allow myself to relieve my near-constant arousal.
As if she could ever understand what a mere glimpse of her does to me. From the moment we met, she’s been a curse worse than all others. One specially crafted for me.
I wonder if she’s been sent from my enemies as a potent brand of torture. It would make more sense than me becoming reduced to pure, unthinking desire whenever I’m near her.
Especially during moments like these, when I might as well be on fire for how much I’m burning for her, aching to tear that clinging dress to shreds and claim everything beneath it.
Worse, I can feel her own desire pulsing off her, the heat of it; it physically pains me that I’m not already touching her.
But I won’t reach for her until she tells me to.
I won’t touch her until shebegsme to.
I expect her to turn. To portal away. To leave me throbbing in the dark as she has countless times before.
Instead, she steps toward me.
I don’t move a muscle. I’m not sure I’m breathing. The gods-damned world could erupt in flames around me, and I wouldn’t even notice.
This is a different type of duel, one not marked by the clashing of swords, but by the torture of restraint. By cruel words volleyed back and forth. It’s less violent, yet easily as dangerous.
I remain motionless as she reaches out a trembling hand. Presses it finger by finger along my chest.
My breath catches. I’ve done everything there is to do with a woman, yet somehow this simple touch threatens to undo me.
Her other hand is next. She marvels at me, eyes narrowing in focus, lips parted in wonder, like I’m something interesting to be studied, not a monster with thousands of kills on my blade. Not a warrior who mere hours ago reduced dozens of creatures to dust. She bites her bottom lip, and at the minor action my body responds, making me grimace.
Isla is breathing more heavily now, testing the precarious scraps of silk barely covering her chest. I’ve never hated and loved silk so much in my long life. I study the thin straps, the plunging neckline, the shape of her breasts outlined by the fabric. She notices the direction of my gaze. I anticipate a retort. Instead, she steps forward.
Into me. Suddenly, a very specific part of me is pressed against her warmth radiating through the flimsy dress. She traces the large scar in the center of my chest, then lower. Lower.
“Hearteater.” The word is a warning, scraped out of the deepest depths of my self-control. We’ve taken this too far already. Her eyes snap to meet mine.
She doesn’t heed my warning. Instead, she lifts to her toes, as if to get even closer. It does little to bridge the space between us; she still isn’t even close to my height. She frowns and falls back on her heels. But her expression is resolute. It fills me both with desire ... and dread.
Part of me wants to warn her to stay away. To tell her this can only end badly. To convince her that I’m dangerous. That she can’t trust me.
Another selfish—much larger—part aches to grab her by the waist, to lift her to my height, to engulf her. To show her every way a person can experience pleasure. Togiveher that pleasure, over and over, and watch as it washes over her. But I can’t, not until I hear those words, the ones just weeks ago she swore she wouldn’t—
“Touch me.” It is a command. “Please.”
I freeze. There is no way ... there’s no way I heard her correctly. I remain very still.
She frowns. She runs her hands even further down my body, dangerously close to the pulsing part of me, as if to demonstrate her meaning. “Please, Grim, would you justtouch—”
It’s all I need to hear. I end her sentence with my mouth, claiming her as mine. Again. The first time happened in the heat of a moment—quickly, too quickly to enjoy. It ended with a blade through my chest. This time, though, I tilt her head back, grip the base of it at the nape of her neck, and taste her completely. The first taste left me pining for her.
Now, I’m well and truly addicted.
I lick the top of her mouth, I lick across her teeth, I lick her so thoroughly that she’ll taste me for days. She moans into my mouth, and a growl escapes me in response. There is something primal about this. Possessive on both our parts, from the way she’s pulling my hair to get me to kiss her harder, to the way my thumbs are stroking her pulse.
“You know,” I whisper into her ear. “I really like this dress.” I slowly trace its plunging neckline, fingers slipping far down her chest. Her pulse quickens below my hands, and I linger, tracing her body beneath the fabric, watching her arch her back slightly, leaning into my touch. Leaning intome. “But it’s in my way.”
