Page 94 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“I’m a little rusty.” The lie tastes sweet on my tongue. He sees right through me; I can tell by the way his mouth curves, but he plays along anyway.

“Here,” he says, moving behind me, pressing his chest against my back. “Let me help.”

His hands are everywhere, my hips, my waist, sliding up my arm to adjust my grip.

“Like this,” he says into my neck.

I press back against him and feel him hard against me. I can’t help myself; I lean back more.

Fuck. The length of him presses against my ass, and my breath catches. Hard isn’t the right word. He’s massive, thick and long and straining against his pants.

“You look affected, little fox.” His voice is a low rumble against my ear. “Should we call this already?”

No. I absolutely will not lose this easily. I roll my hips, slowly, grinding back against his length.

“Fuck.” The word tears out of him as his head tips back, and it is the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.

I do it again, slower, feeling every inch of him.

His grip on my hip turns bruising. “Gemma⁠—”

I turn in his arms, facing him. I slide my hand between us and find his thick length. I wrap my palm around him through the fabric and start to stroke, holding his gaze the entire time.

His eyes go hooded, and his jaw tightens, and I watch him unravel a little more with every pass of my hand. Every sound he swallows and every shift of his body under my touch sends heat tearing through me until I’m burning just as badly as he is.

If I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to, so I rise on my toes, and whisper against his ear, “You look like the one affected to me, Ryewood.”

Before he can respond, I pull away and spin toward the board. I throw the dart and hit dead center. I turn back to him with smug satisfaction.

“I guess that makes me the winner.”

His eyes are hungry and dangerous, with the look of a man who’s already planning his revenge.

I saunter toward the far end of the bar, where it curves into shadow, secluded and hidden from the crowd. I lean against the counter, trying to compose myself. I need another shot of whiskey, desperately. That was bold, even for me.

My hand is still tingling from the feel of him, and fuck, I want him. But I won.

The bartender is busy at the other end of the bar, pouring drinks for a group of rowdy travelers. It’ll be a while.

I feel him before I hear him, the heat of his body and the scent of cedar and moss reaching me a moment before his chest presses against me, caging me against the bar.

“Gemma.” His voice is low and rough, right against my ear. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away with that, did you?”

My heart slams against my ribs.

“I won fair and square,” I manage.

His hands find my hips and pull me back against him, and all I can think about is how badly I want him inside me.

“Fair?” He laughs, and the sound promises ruin. “There was nothing fair about what you just did to me.”

His right hand drifts over my hip, down my thigh, then back up, agonizingly slow, until his fingers settle against the ache between my legs. The touch is featherlight, but still enough to make me gasp.

“Still think you won?” he whispers.

I grip the edge of the bar, trying to remember how to breathe. His fingers press harder, rubbing slow circles that make my knees weak.

“All you have to do is tell me I win, and I’ll stop.”