The world had shrunk to just the taste of him, the feel of him, and the solid warmth of his body against hers. Everything else—her fears, her doubts, the careful walls she'd spent years building—faded into background noise.
His mouth traced down her jaw, found the sensitive spot below her ear, and she gasped.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her skin. "If you need me to stop?—"
"Don't you dare."
She felt him smile. And then his mouth found hers again, and she lost track of everything but the fire building between them. This was dangerous. This was reckless. This was everything she'd promised herself she would never let happen.
And right now, with his hands in her hair and his heart beating against hers, she couldn't bring herself to care.
CHAPTER 8
She tasted like summer. Like honey and wildflowers and desire. Thallos drank it in, lost in the sensation of her mouth moving against his, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed so close he could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through both their shirts.
*Finally.*
The word echoed through him like a struck bell. He'd wanted this since the moment he'd seen her hunched in the corner of that committee meeting, trying so hard to disappear. He'd dreamed about it, imagined it, tormented himself with the possibility of it. And now?—
Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, and he made a sound that would have embarrassed him if he'd had the capacity for embarrassment left. But there was nothing left. Nothing but her, and this, and the desperate need to get closer still.
He found the curve of her waist and traced upwards along her spine, feeling her shiver in response. She was so responsive.Every touch drew something from her—a gasp, a sigh, a shift of her body against his that drove him half-mad with want. His cock pressed urgently against his sheath but some small remnant of restraint kept it under control.
*Careful,* some distant part of his brain warned. *Don't push. Don't rush. She's like a wild thing—startle her and she'll bolt.*
His mouth left hers to trace along her jaw, down the column of her throat, finding the spot where her pulse hammered beneath soft skin. She tilted her head back, giving him access, and the trust in that gesture made something fierce and protective surge through his chest.
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged.
"Don't stop." The words were barely a whisper. "Please don't?—"
He kissed her again before she could finish. Slower this time. Deeper. Trying to pour everything he felt into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. *I see you. I want you. I'm not going anywhere.*
Her fingers slid from his hair to his shoulders, gripping hard enough to leave marks. He hoped she did. He hoped he'd have bruises tomorrow that he could press and remember. Proof that this was real, that she'd wanted him, that for one perfect moment she'd stopped running and chosen to stay.
And then she pulled away.
He felt the loss like an actual physical pain. His arms were suddenly empty, his mouth bereft, his whole body screaming at him to close the distance she'd created.
He didn't.
He stood very still, breathing hard, watching as she retreated two steps. Three. Her hand came up to touch her lips—swollen now, flushed with color—and he had to close his eyes against the sight.
*Let her go. Let her choose.*
"I—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. "I shouldn't have?—"
"Don't."
Her eyes went wide.
"Don't apologize," he said, softer now. "Don't take it back. Whatever happens next, don't stand there and tell me you regret that."
The flush in her cheeks deepened. Rose pink spread down her throat and disappeared beneath the collar of her dress. He wanted to chase it with his mouth. He wanted to map every inch of skin until he knew her body better than his own.
He stayed where he was.
"I don't regret it," she said finally. The words came out small and reluctant. Like they were being dragged from somewhere deep. "That's the problem."
