“If you clear that hedge, I swear on every bloody campaign I’ve fought, I’ll tan your hide so hard you won’t be able to sit!”
Celeste ignored him. The horse gathered beneath her—a coiling mass of muscle. Then, they were airborne.
For one breathless second, she soared. Wind rushed past her, the world tilting. Her stomach dropped, her heart lurched, and a startled laugh escaped her lips.
Too soon, her flight ended. The mare’s hooves struck the ground, jarring every bone in Celeste’s body. Her balance wavered—just a little, and then a lot. With an indelicate yelp, she slid right off the saddle, landing in an undignified heap.
The grass received her, the prickly blades brushing against her fingertips and her cheeks. By the thud of the retreating hooves, Titania had to be crossing the Forest of Athens by now.
Flat on her back, staring at the blue sky, Celeste blinked. Was she dead? No, her legs were still working. Pity, if she were dead, Hawk would regret his careless words. Or he would throw her to the wolves and be done with her.
So much for proving she was no Papillon. She must have looked like a rag doll tossed aside by fate. Celeste barely had time to breathe before thundering hooves filled her ears again. She turned her head, heart still racing, just as Hawk’s massive stallion surged toward the hedge.
Flat on the earth, humbled by gravity, she saw the sheer power in how the horse gathered itself, muscles rippling beneath a gleaming coat. The perfect balance of man and beast, moving as one. And Hawk—towering, commanding, utterly in control.
He didn’t hesitate.
With a fluid grace that made her earlier attempt seem like a blancmange atop a circus poodle, he leaned forward. Thestallion launched, soaring over the hedge as if wings had unfurled from its sides. Hawk barely moved—no flailing, no panic—just absolute certainty, as though he had never once considered falling. What? He probably didn’t even know the concept existed.
Then, with a heavy thud, hooves met earth. He gave a sharp tug on the reins, and the horse slowed instantly beneath him.
Celeste let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. He was magnificent. A centaur king. He looked dashing and gorgeous, and if this were a fairy tale, then certainly this was the moment she swooned.
A powerful vault, and he was off the horse. As he raced to her, several pounds of muscle, sweat, and angry energy, he looked so worried, shocked even—as if he had seen his own ghost.
Celeste closed her eyes quickly, her heart pounding. This was not the reaction of a guardian, was it? But how could she be sure? When Shakespeare wanted to prove something, he staged a play within a play. Perfect! She would pretend to have fainted and see how he behaved.
When Hawk called her name, she held her eyes shut. Boots thudded against the earth. Then his hand moved about her frantically, pressing against her wrist, brushing the hair from her forehead, skating over her arms, her ribs, her collarbone. His breathing was harsh, uneven.
“Reckless girl. You will be the death of me.” His voice was low, tight. He cupped her face. “Are you hurt? What do you need from me?”
She had to understand who he was to her. How did fairy-tale princes know the princesses needed a kiss to wake up?
But her befuddling prince-to-be didn’t kiss her. Instead, his arm passed under her shoulders, as if preparing to lift her. Celeste’s pulse beat into her throat, and when she felt his breath close to her mouth, she pushed up on her elbows and gluedher lips to his, a quick, daring peck. The contact jolted her. His mouth was warm, firm, unsmiling, and her stomach swooped as if she had leapt another hedge.
Her eyes shot open to find his gaze staring back at her.
His expression was thunderous, and he glared at her as if she were a French foe who dared pepper him with a slingshot. For a heartbeat, he was stone, his chest heaving once, twice. He would deny her. Oh, he didn’t care for her. He didn’t—
A low groan broke from his throat, and the sound vibrated into her mouth. Locking his hands hard on her waist, he bent over her.
Then he kissed her, his mouth closing over hers with ruthless certainty. The shock pulsed through her, setting her limbs trembling. His stubble rasped her skin, and his breath poured hot against her lips. She clutched his coat. If she didn’t, she would drown in the grass.
His weight pressed along her front, as if he had no intention of sending her to suitors or doses of men.
Who needed air?
“Little Tulle,” he breathed the words against her cheek, and they felt raw, as if he had surrendered them against his will.
Celeste's breathing was rioting. Some part of her was questioning her sanity at having provoked him. The Papillon should have been beating her wings frantically, but instead there was only a molten quiet that spread through her chest. Yielding felt less like weakness, more like life itself.
Was this what heroines did? Was this what real desire felt like? What if she did it wrong? What if she moved too much, too little? Then she became so dizzy that she no longer cared. All she cared about was that he somehow heard the words she was thinking.
My prince, my prince, my—
He tilted his head, fitting his mouth to hers, and then his tongue stroked her lower lip. Celeste gasped, and his tongue slid inside, filling her mouth with wet heat.
Everything within her went quiet. Her legs dissolved, and her torso would have melted if he had not been holding her. A feverish rush of heat pooled low in her belly and places she knew she should guard, but they were mutinous. She wasn’t Celeste, or a lady, or Papillon. She was something else entirely. A mass of nerves and need, soft and pliant in his arms, her world narrowed to the taste of him, the way he consumed her like he had been waiting for this moment forever.
