Page 108

“Use that filthy imagination of yours, little witch.” His voice lowers, thick with promise. “Tell me what you think I mean.”

I bite my bottom lip. “You touched yourself to the thought of this, didn’t you?”

“I did.” He gathers the hem of my skirt in his hands, eyes smoldering. “I came all over my sheets, thinking about how I’d work your cunt with my fingers and tongue until you were flushed and wrecked, stumbling into the ballroom like a fawn on shaking legs.”

I squeeze my thighs together.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “But what if someone sees us⁠—”

“Let them.” His gaze blazes. “Let them see me on my knees for you and only you.”

He slips beneath my skirt, vanishing from view. I feel him everywhere. In the ghost of his lips still clinging to mine. In the memory of his teeth dragging across my skin. His fingers tease me over and over, and it’s maddening how easily he edges me to a cusp he’s thrown me from time and time again. His mouth trails along my inner thigh in a slow, reverent sweep, like he’s signing his name there, claiming me as his.

His to worship. His to ruin.

I cannot hold back the gasp that slips from my lips the moment he hooks my leg over his shoulder. There’s the heat of his breath and then⁠—

Then he devours me.

I stifle my moans with my trembling hands.

And when his fingers join his tongue—sliding deep, curling just right⁠—

A moan rips from my lips.

If anyone walks by, they’ll hear me.

The thought should shame me, but it doesn’t.

It thrills me.

He coaxes me through my orgasm, even as I lift my skirt to free him. My knees are weak, and he catches me as I collapse against him. I’m panting into his neck, sweat pebbling my brow, my spine.

I can feel him—hard and ready.

If I wanted, I could have him. Right here, right now.

And I know—Dagny, I know—he wouldn’t stop me.

Even if he should.

Because there’s a room full of brides waiting for him downstairs, and he’s supposed to be one of theirs—not mine.

The reminder is sobering.

“You should leave first,” I tell him. “I’ll wait a few minutes before I follow.”

It takes more effort than it should to untangle myself from him, especially when he’s looking at me like that—wide-eyed, confused, and carrying something in his gaze I’m not ready to name. Not just yet.

“Right.” His tone is clipped, frustrated. He clears his throat as he brushes wrinkles from his velvet doublet. “I’ll see you downstairs, then.”

“Wait.” I catch his sleeve. “Your first dance… It should be with Miriya.”

He turns around, and the unspoken thing in his gaze comes into focus—despair, stark and unhidden. It shadows his blue eyes as he leans in and kisses me. A brief, treasured moment I wish I could capture and bottle. When he strolls out of the alcove, shoulders thrown back and chin high, I’m left wondering if maybe the line between us has blurred for him too.

Riven’s parting kiss still lingers on my lips as I make my way downstairs and through the crush of revelers. My sweat has dried to my skin by the time I swipe a glass of Wyldeberry wine from a gilded tray and saunter into the⁠—