Page 168 of Whisper of Nightmares

“Where’s your bed?”

If just the sound of his voice can make her unravel, what is it going to do to her when his hands find their way over her most sensitive places?

“There.” Euphemia points.

The sound of her breathless already seems to do things to him, too. A growl answers her. And then they are kissing again. Lips colliding. Hands grasping. Flesh more like a barrier than a conduit.

Dagfinn presses her up against one of the walls. For a fleeting moment, the impropriety of it all slithers into her mind. Not here, in the corridor?

But then Euphemia feels the heat of him through his clothes. The hard length of him presses against the aching space between her thighs, and she arches instinctively into him.

She fought for this.

For Dagfinn.

Found him when he was barely more than a lost and fractured soul.

Nursed him back to his humanity.

Brought him home.

There is nothing that will stand in their way now.

He is hers as much as she is his.

Dagfinn nibbles on her lip and Euphemia all but melts in his grasp. She moans, head lulling back to expose her neck. Dagfinn does not squander the opportunity to devour her. The sensitive skin. The tender veins.

He buries her in ravenous kisses all the way down to her collarbone.

When he finally comes up for air, Dagfinn grips her rear again, this time more intentional about getting the fullness of it within his large grasp, and then he bolts down the hallway.

Euphemia is impressed they even make it to her bedchamber, given how many times they stopped to consume each other again.

Dagfinn practically kicks the door open.

They drag each other to the lush and feathery bed.

As they land atop it, Dagfinn notes the missing sheets and chuckles. “What happened to your bed?”

Dazedly, Euphemia feels beneath her. “Ah. That would be your fault, of course.”

“Of course,” he says earnestly. “Remind me how exactly, though?”

“The dreams,” Euphemia says with a groan. Then latching onto the back of his neck and pulling him closer, she adds, “Hush now and kiss me.”

“As you command⁠—”

But Euphemia is done talking. She claims his mouth with her own, silencing his words.

Dagfinn doesn’t seem to complain, not about his unfinished thought nor the unmade bed as they tumble upon it.

It’s here, with Dagfinn pressed atop her, his hands working away at her stays that Euphemia loses the battle with patience.

She has spent so long imagining what it would feel like to have him here, beneath her hands, against her skin, that reality almost feels more overwhelming than any dream ever could.

She’s waited for him long enough.

Euphemia fumbles for the ties of his trousers, freeing the length of him in a matter of ragged breaths.