Page 9 of Tasteful Anarchy and Tangled Auras
I drain my beer. “C’mon,” I murmur as I somehow manage to step further away from her. Damn her. Why was I infatuated with the smell of her? I spin on my heel and leave her to follow. Another breach of protocol, and I smirk to myself as I stride out of the tavern. I push the door open and step through but drop it to fall on her.
“Are you trying to insult me?” she says. Curiosity is the only emotion I catch in her voice.
“No. Piss you off, maybe. Idoenjoy the feel of your anger,” I throw over my shoulder without turning or slowing.
“Perhaps not the best strategy when you owe me a favor.”
Fuck, I had forgotten about that, so drawn into her I had become. Is she using a compulsion spell? I’m a simpering idiot over here, rubbing my thumb over my fingers, recalling the feel of her hair when I had—stupidly, impulsively—brushed it back. I sniff and then peek at her aura as I snap in my court voice, “Do you need to be treated as spoilt royal pet? I can do that, Priestess, if you’d prefer.”
As I hold out my arm for her, I am rewarded with a flash of her heat and my cock hardens again. Dammit, she just breaks through my shields without a second thought. No spells detected. Just her. I adjust myself. She strides past me.
“I see you’d prefer to be feral,” then, softer, I add, “As I’d prefer as well.”
I swear I see her step hitch. I wonder offhandedly what her forms are. Something with superior hearing, I’d guess. I catch up easily; she is short for a nymph.
“So now, what is this favor?”
She smirks and cants her gorgeous grey eyes up to mine. “Nothing much. Just your seed.”
Adelaide
THE DROP OF HIS JAWwas absolutely worth it. It might have been more pleasurable to draw things out, let him struggle to figure out my intentions, but his sultry eyes and spicy scent—added to his obvious disdain for protocol and the Court—is too much to resist. I do enjoy playing with fire.
He follows a half step behind me as I lead us upstairs. His utter silence should have been satisfying, but instead, it feels covetous.
I press my hand to the wooden door to my rooms, and as soon as the blue glow emerges, I push the door open and enter before letting it drop on him.
“Hmm, petty too, I see,” he murmurs in his silky voice. “Not usually a trait I’m attracted to.”
“I guess you’ll have to make an exception.”
A pause, then he says, “It’s a real shame you’re into ordering me around. I would have enjoyed bedding you if only you hadn’t insisted I do it.” His knuckles trace up my arm, raising goosebumps behind his touch. “I don’t blindly take orders from anyone, Priestess,” he whispers as he invades my space.
His head dips down and his mouth touches my hair as his fingers trace my clavicle. Holy shit, his fingers are fire. Thethought of them in other places makes my core clench even as I try to keep things somewhat professional here.
“I think you misunderstand me, Bryn.” I try to sound matter of fact but my voice wavers with need. He practically purrs upon hearing it. Dammit.
His umber curls dip forward and my fingers twitch to touch them. I haven’t had any lack of action lately, but I guess I am Fae-starved.
Or maybe he was mine. An inappropriately timed chuckle gurgles up. Wouldn’t that just chap everyone’s ass: back one day and find a mate. It is so rare these days. The chances seem exceedingly slim. I dismiss the thought. His eyes dance as I realize he has been staring at me.
“Your thoughts flare across your face as they hit your brain,” he explains. “It’s delightfully guileless.”
Ignoring his comment, I say, “The words my grandmother used were ‘in my bed’ and ‘seed upon my skin.’”
His eyebrow quirks as he steps forward again. My back hits the wall of my receiving room as I retreat. What is it about him that is making me so passive?
“Your grandmother. The queen. Told you”—his fingers trail around my neck to my nape as he unhooks the cloak he’d given me—“to haveme. In your bed?” The cloak falls to the floor, forgotten.
I’m no blushing maiden. I can play this game. I place my hands upon his hips and start to trace the lines of his abdomen over his shirt when the realization hits me. Not passive. Prey. I shiver. “No, she said a nymph male. And you’re the only one I’ve come across lately that’s not a bootlicker.”
A burst of laughter emerges from him. “Well, that I can understand, though my pride is hurt that the bar was so low as ‘lack of boot licking.’” He presses his hips forward, and I feel the length of him against me and let out a soft sigh.
His grin only grows, letting his dimple emerge. Smug bastard. “Is theretrulynothing else you like about me, Priestess?”
I take my time answering, thoroughly enjoying the press of him against me. I bite my lip and look up at him. “I like that when it comes down to it, you’ll do exactly as I please,” I say huskily. Selkie heritage for the win.
His mouth falls open again.
