"Tell me to stop," he said, "and I will."
"I don't want you to stop."
The words hung in the space between them, impossible to take back. She watched his face—the flicker of surprise, the flare of hunger, the visible effort of restraint—and felt powerful for the first time in longer than she could remember.
*I did that,* she thought. *I made him look like that.*
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged. "You need to be sure."
"I'm sure."
"The grove?—"
"I don't care about the grove." She tightened her fingers on his shoulder, feeling the muscles flex beneath her palm. "I care about this. About you. About?—"
He kissed her.
Not like the teasing brush of lips in the tasting room, or the heated exploration in his cabin. This was something else entirely. This was thorough. This was a claiming. This was a male who had been holding himself back with an iron will and had finally, finally let go.
His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head back to give him better access. His tongue swept across her lower lip, seeking entry, and she opened for him with a moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
*Yes,* her body sang. *More.*
She'd forgotten they were supposed to be dancing. Her hands slid up to twine around his neck, pulling him closer. He was so tall—she had to rise on her toes to reach him properly—and one of his hands dropped to her hip to steady her, his fingers spreading wide across the curve of her body.
"You taste like honey," he murmured against her mouth.
"I haven't had any honey."
"I know." He kissed the corner of her lips. Her jaw. The soft skin beneath her ear. "That's how I know it's you."
She didn't understand what he meant, but the words washed over her like syrup, warm and sweet. His lips found her pulse point and she gasped, her head falling back to give him access. He took full advantage—kissing, licking, nipping at the sensitive skin of her throat while his hands roamed her back.
The grove seemed to pulse around them. The lantern light had taken on a golden quality, honeyed and thick, and the air smelled of night-blooming flowers she couldn't name. She was distantly aware that something unusual was happening—something magical, something beyond the ordinary—but it felt right. It felt like the world was finally aligning with what she wanted instead of fighting against her.
"More," she heard herself say. "Please, Thallos, more?—"
He groaned against her neck. The sound vibrated through her, liquid heat spreading from the point of contact.
His hands grew bolder. One slid down to cup her ass, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her stomach. The other traced the neckline of her dress, his fingers dancing along the edge of the fabric, teasing but not quite touching.
She wanted him to touch.
"Yes," she breathed, answering a question he hadn't asked. "Yes, please?—"
His fingers dipped beneath the neckline and found the soft swell of her breast. She cried out—too loud in the quiet grove—and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing her deep and hard while his hand explored.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her—of course he did—lowering them both to the mossy ground without breaking the kiss. She ended up half in his lap, her dress rucked up around her thighs, his hands everywhere at once. He touched her like she was precious andbreakable, but also like he was starving for her, the two impulses warring in every stroke.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were almost black in the lantern light, the usual amber swallowed by pupil. "So beautiful, and you don't even know it."
"Thallos—"
"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you." His hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Sitting in that corner at the committee meeting, trying so hard to be invisible. You were the only person in the room I could see."
*Don't believe him,* whispered the voice that sounded like her mother's worst mistakes. *Men say things like this. They don't mean them.*
