Page 72 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

“L-Lark,” he whispers. “I want to see you, too.”

How can I deny him? Why would I deny him? The only reason might be that to remove my own clothes means there are precious seconds where I am not touching him, and that makes no sense to my lust-addled brain.

“Lark,” he says again, a little louder. My thumb swipes over a nipple and he tightens his thighs around my hips.

With striking clarity, I know what I want. I nip the delicate skin of his throat, then withdraw my hands so that I can remove my own tunic without caring if I tear it or where it may fall.

Dante watches me. He leans back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded. Some self-consciousness still lurks behind his gaze, but he is bare to me, and I rub a hand over the bulge in his trousers.

“I want to ride you in here,” I say, and Dante jerks in surprise.

“Y-you do?”

“Yes.” I loom closer again, crowding him, pushing him fully back onto the workbench. Dante goes easily, soft and gentle and pliant because he wants what I want. Though I should check. “Do you want to do that?”

“Yes.” The word is fast and stronger than anything he has said since he walked in here. “But you haven’t finished.”

“Finished?”

Mischief. That is what I see now, and it squeezes my heart and makes me want to kiss Dante again. “Finished undressing,” he clarifies. “Please?”

I growl and kiss him, then tear my mouth away and take a step back. “As you command,” I say.

Chapter Twenty

Dante

This can’t be real. Maybe the last couple of days have been a dream. Maybe I fell asleep in the living room after reading that book I borrowed from Grant, and Ophelia will come back from her girls’ night any minute and shake me awake and send me off to bed—

Lark pushes his trousers down—and I’ve hardly admired, all day, just how tight they are around his arse and thighs—and then steps out of them, apparently not caring at all that they’re on the floor. There’s plenty of dirt down there. I’m not the tidiest gardener.

That thought is fleeting, there and gone, because now I get to look at him, and I realise that I’ve spent all these years not really doing that at all. Sure, I’ve spoken to him and spent time in the café. I know what he looks like; I think I could sketch him from memory if I were any good at drawing. But all those looks have been quick, bashful, not daring to push too far because I never wanted to freak him out or have to humiliatingly let me down gently.

Now I can look. Now he clearly wants me to. He stands there, tipping his head to one side so his hair falls in a sleek waterfall of dark strands. It’s already a little messy from where I’ve grabbed at him, but I like that, too. His face, without the glamour, is sharper, more alien, but I like the jutting line of his cheekbones and his too-sharp teeth.

Slowly, I look lower. My breath comes faster as I trace the surprising width of his shoulders, the pull of pale, shimmering skin over taut muscle. His cock is half-hard, slender and emerging from a base of dark curls. My mouth waters. He wants to ride me? I want to taste him.

Boldness seizes me. “Turn around.”

Lark raises an eyebrow but does as I say. Fuck, he looks good. His arse is round and pert, and I’m going to—

“Fuck. Come here.”

He’s between my thighs from one second to the next, and he kisses me like he’s starving, that edge that has been present all day turning into something heavier, sharper. I wrap my legs around his hips as best I can to pull him closer. His skin is warm and smooth under my fingertips. Does he heal like wolves and vampires do, or will digging my fingers in leave bruises?

I shiver and kiss along one of those sharp cheekbones. I don’t want to. Sure, if we were together, I’d want people to know, but I don’t want to leave a mark on him, don’t want to mar the absolute perfection of him.

“May I…?” Lark’s hands are quick and possessive, fingers curling around my stomach and hips in ways I’ve never experienced from anyone else I’ve slept with. He tugs at the waistband of my trousers, then squeezes the flesh just above there again, like he can’t help himself.

“Yes. Please.”

He unfastens them deftly and helps me lift my hips so he can drag them all the way off. Lark pauses, hands on my thighs, and takes me in far faster than I did him. He’s no less thorough for it. His grip on me tightens and his cock jerks.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and I shake my head.

“You—”

“I cannot lie.” Lark sears me with a look. “You know that.”