Page 30 of Vengefully Matched

But never so near as now. Now, Hart touched her gently, but it was enough to catapult her into the fantasy of intimacy. Priscilla’s finger lingered on the side of her jaw, just below her ear. Now, she felt at once like she knew exactly what to do and like she knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about anything, ever.

“Show me.” She meant for it to come out a command, but out came, instead, a reedy whisper, hoarse and full of longing. “Show me how you’ll sell it, following the rules. How will you make sure that people believe you’re mine? That I belong to you too?”

Priscilla smirked, and her mouth opened. Her hands dropped to her sides. For a moment, Agatha was certain she would say something cutting. They were, after all, vengefully matched. But she tilted her head, so confident that Agatha suddenly wanted—no, needed—to see her leveled. Wrecked by the same agonizing want that had laid her bare.

She raised her own hand and set it against Priscilla’s neck, gently at first.

Priscilla let out a little gasp, and for a moment, her face was open, the careful, clever mask of a woman slipping until Agatha moved her thumb, a featherlight brush up, and then a firmer press against the delicate skin beneath Priscilla’s jaw. Agatha saw, for just a sliver of a second, a person as desperate to be loved, to be touched, as she was.

She pulled Priscilla’s face toward her, closing the gap between them until they were cheek to cheek, flexing her fingers firmly around the other woman’s neck.

“Did you think I wouldn’t show you too?” she whispered, entranced, almost hypnotized, by her own boldness. “Did you think I’d miss the opportunity to demonstrate what it would feel like to be mine?” She squeezed her hand, flexing it just a little, and Priscilla let out a soft keen that made Agatha almost lose control, rules be damned.

Hart was still against her, perfectly still, and then she wasn’t.

Then she was reaching a hand around, an arm bracing Agatha’s back, dipping her, cupping her cheek with the other hand, thumb stroking an insistent, careful pattern against her jawline. She ran her fingers down, skating Agatha’s neck, raising every hair on her body, eliciting a gasp that she couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to.

Prissy’s fingers mapped a path across Agatha’s collarbone, skimming, flirting with lower, stopping, then brushing back up the other side of Agatha’s neck, holding firmly for a moment, pupils shot wide, eye contact unbroken.

Those perfect, wine-red lips opened, and Agatha thought her heart might stop.

“I’ll show you.” Priscilla’s voice was husky. “I don’t need to kiss you to show everyone exactly what it would be like if you belonged to me. I don’t need much to make the Council, hell, the entire world, believe that you’re woven so deeply into my bones that I can’t bear to stop myself from touching you.”

Agatha’s breathing was ragged now, and she would be embarrassed if not for the way that Priscilla’s cheeks and breath matched hers.

For a moment, she expected Priscilla to kiss her. For them to drop the act and claw off their clothing, to fuck on the library floor.

For a few exquisitely agonizing, glorious seconds, she let herself picture it, running her hands down, down, lower, touching Priscilla, the scrape of the carpet against her back, the spread of her thighs.

But Hart pulled her upright and then took two steps back, so quickly that Agatha thought she might fall. She reached for a chair, grabbing for the extra support, even if it did show the extent of her distraction.

“Oh,” she said, and Hart crossed her arms, snapping her fingers to fix her hair back to straight, unruffled perfection.

“See? If you want me to pretend to be with you, that’s easily within my capabilities.” Priscilla frowned. “The question is, what else do I get?”

“Oh.” Agatha blushed, hand pushed against her chest. Could she really agree to faking a relationship in exchange for sex? She would be lying if she said that sounded bad to her.

Hart’s eyes widened. “Not like that. I mean, you get to hunt down the culprit. What do I get, careerwise? I didn’t mean personally. I’m not that hard up.”

That little nagging voice at the back of her mind said that Agatha also got to find out if Hart was that culprit, but that was out of the question to mention.

“You get the benefit of not being detained, obviously.” Agatha’s composure was coming back to her, haughty and overcompensating for the moment of agonizingly honest lust she hadn’t meant to reveal.

“Yes, but it was your idea,” Hart pointed out. “Clearly, you’re doing this for a reason.”

“Fine.” Agatha crossed her arms, mirroring the other woman’s disdain. “I also need your help with the mundane mayor. And I need to keep a closer watch on how you’re dealing with Connie Witherspoon, because you’re still shirking that particular responsibility.”

Hart scowled. “Fine. You’re keeping tabs on me, winning Mayor Khalil’s trust, I get it. But then I should get something from you too.”

“As long as it follows the no-kissing rule, and is reasonably appropriate,” she responded primly.

Hart rolled her eyes. “If we do this, I want you to actively help me rehab my reputation. Yes, I know I am at fault for leaving someone at a wedding. I should have left her before the wedding. She’s lovely, Evelyn, but we—we weren’t suited.”

There was actual pain there. Perhaps Priscilla Hart wasn’t quite the heartless monster people accused her of being.

Maybe there had been more to the bolting than met the eye. But it wasn’t her job to pry, just to sort out the details here so that they could both get what they needed and not get caught faking it.

“Fine. You’ll be a doting girlfriend, and I promise when it’s time, I will publicly, but politely, call things off, leaving you heartbroken and proving once and for all that you’re capable of feeling things besides disdain and schadenfreude.”