“Show them you are not broken, even if you think you are, show them you are not. Show him, with those pretty lips and the gown you are pretending to hate, that he should desire you above all. Remind him it is you he should bow to.”
Maeve’s chest moved up. And then down. Up and then down.
“Please,” he added with a mischievous grin.
“Fine,” was all she said, but she was already grabbing the hanger and heading into her dressing room.
Minutes later, when she reappeared, Reeve’s eyes widened, and an audible exhale slid from his nose. He bent forward, where he still lounged on the bed, crossing his arms and covering his mouth with one hand.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked, suspicion in her tone.
Nothing this luxurious had ever hugged her so flawlessly. Even the length was just right, no alterations needed. She crossed her chamber towards a large pointed mirror, Reeve’s eyes following her every step of the way. The train slid across the floor in a light hiss.
“I fucking hate this whole thing,” said Maeve, arms folded over her chest as she observed herself in the mirror.
“Yeah,” said Reeve with a controlled sigh behind her. “And you look hideous, too.”
Maeve’s eyes snapped to his in their reflection. He was already smirking. She fixed her face quickly, showing no sign of concern for his opinion, and rolled her eyes.
“Well, my hair isn’t done,” she muttered, absently touching the messy way it was clipped at the top of her head.
He stood and crossed towards the mirror, coming to a stop behind her. His hands moved without hesitancy, his fingers connecting with her skin at the base of her scalp. She froze, her fingers still on the sleek clip holding her hair, and her breath caught tightly in her chest. His fingers carded up her hair until they brushed over hers.
Electricity zapped between them, rolling Maeve’s head back. She released a tight breath, hating that he heard it. He bent, placing his mouth near her cheek as he observed her in the mirror.
“Will you wear it up?” he asked, his breath ghosting across her skin. His fingers tightened around hers fractionally, forcing the clip open. “Or will you wear it down?” he asked, his voice a soft hum, as her hair cascaded down her back. “Like this.”
The sleek metal that had been holding her hair clattered to the floor, forgotten. Her eyes were locked on his scrutiny of her in the mirror. His fingers dipped through her hair, brushing against her exposed spine.
Her skin shot to attention, betraying her completely.
She forced words out, anything to distract her own thoughts from how he watched her with locked interest.
“Do you think he’ll be mad I’m not wearing the emerald?” she asked, thankful her voice remained steady despite the fact that Reeve’s fingers now trailed the fabric at the base of her spine.
He stood to his full height, watching his fingers glide between her skin and the dark beads lining the low-cut back. “Of course he will.”
Maeve turned towards him, slow and steady, but as she turned, his fingers were already on the move. He took the back of her neck, palming her head in his broad hand.
“Remember that tonight is a game. And that our goal is to incite a jealous possession.” His eyes slid down her chest, where the intricate and beautiful beadwork shaped her waist. “Wearingmycolors is so much more. . . provocative.”
Maeve swallowed. “And how far are you willing to go to provoke him?”
Reeve clicked his tongue. “We,” he corrected. “How far are we willing to go, you mean.”
Maeve hesitated slightly before responding, her eyes cast down, studying the dress. “I will do whatever it takes to save Mal.”
Reeve’s brows lifted, his hand still splayed at the back of her head. “Anything?”
Maeve’s eyes narrowed reproachfully.
“So if I,” he began, ignoring her dagger-like gaze and sliding his free hand over her stomach, touching where his eyes kept lingering, “touch you in front of him. . . like this. . .you won’t shoot me with lightning?”
Maeve watched his tattooed fingers lift up across the fabric of her gown, as though he was drawing the very air she breathed through her lungs. “No,” she answered, eyes cast down. “It’s part of the game.”
Reeve hummed. His fingers still on the move, now above the dress, they slid between her exposed cleavage and prickled between her collarbones. “And if I pressed my lips here?” he asked, his voice darker.
The rise and fall of her chest became heavy. Still, she would not meet his eyes. In pitiful and pathetic defiance, because whatever reason she told herself she did not stop him wasn’t enough, she closed her eyes.
