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With his thumb under her chin, he forced her head to slant and rest against his shoulder. Despite the shadows enveloping them, she had no trouble meeting his gaze. His eyes glowed, a beacon in her storm.
Kaysar bent his head, putting his lips at her ear. He whispered, “Have you missed me, sweetling?”
His low rumble filled her head, rousing sensual smoke, fogging her thoughts. How easily he wove a spell over her mind. And her body. Her nipples drew tight, and her belly fluttered. A warm ache bloomed between her legs. She wanted...she wanted!
The intensity of her desire for the man frightened her in a way Jareth’s violence had not, and she gulped. Kaysar had spoken of craving her. But she craved him, even though she knew better.
What you craved, you focused on. What you focused on, you magnified. What you magnified had the power to erode your resistance.
She needed her resistance to prevent herself from making a stupid mistake. Her defenses were already down, her ability to filter emotion on the fritz. It must be. Her senses remained heightened, her nose saturated with his delicious scent, her skin tingling, desperate for his touch.
Afternoon heat? What afternoon heat?
Realizing he’d lost his foe, the Viking—Jareth—released his aggression, using a tree trunk as a punching bag. She flinched with every blow. How often had he used those fists on Lulundria?
When he finished his temper tantrum, the tree had a nice hidey hole for cat-size squirrels.
Cookie tried to maintain a strict watch on his whereabouts, in case he neared again. But her mind had other ideas, tracking Kaysar’s every breath. Every point of contact warmed her.
Jareth stomped around. Kaysar continued to hold her, as if they had all the time in the world, gliding, gliding, gliding his thumb over her hammering pulse, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
When Jareth finally bailed, Kaysar smoothed a leaf from her cheek. “Someone is enjoying her new powers, I see. As she should.” A husky chuckle fanned her lips, and she wanted to tell him to shut up and never stop talking. To be still and move against her. To let her go and hold on forever. “Lulundria created ivy. What you created is poisonvine. The difference is telling, don’t you think?”
“Telling?” she said, biting back a moan when he rubbed a massive erection into her crack.
“Mmm-mmm. Telling.” He nuzzled her cheek. “One was made for light, one for dark.” Holding her gaze, he slid the hand on her throat up and over her jawline, then traced the tip of a claw around her lips. The lightest of grazes, yet streams of pleasure arced to her core. “How perfectly you fit against me, princess.”
Concentrate on what matters. Survival. Knowledge. A ticket home. “What is poisonvine?” Would she hurt others with it, as she’d hurt the two women during her escape? Would she harm loved ones like Pearl Jean and Sugars? That—no. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She would rather die than injure her family.
“Poisonvine is dangerous to most fae. It weakens them. But you, it will strengthen, I suspect.”
“What does poisonvine do to you?”
“Tickle,” he breathed. He nipped her earlobe and goose bumps erupted over her limbs. “Tell me, Chantel. What is this power you wield over my body, hmm?”
She had power over his body? Her? “None. Some?” Tons? “I don’t know.” He certainly wielded power over hers. As he held her and bestowed those gentle caresses, her muscles melted like butter. Focus. Right. “What’s your beef with Jareth?” And they did have a beef. A big one.
What had Jareth said? Why can’t we end this war between us, once and for all?
Kaysar tensed. “That is none of your concern.”
Six words, unbending command. If she asked again, he intended to retaliate. But how? She still wasn’t afraid of him.
Think this through. The battle between the two men hadn’t started with Lulundria. Kaysar only met the princess the day Jareth iced her. So why had the king risked his life to aid an enemy’s wife?
“Maybe you should let me go now?” she said. She needed a moment to think without him nearby.
Another chuckle. “Does my proximity bother you, sweetling?”
“Yes,” she burst out. “And I’d prefer an endearment like Machete or Chops. Now be a good boy, and let me go.”
He moved his hands over her arms, so gentle, almost tender, never cutting her with those vicious claws. “Little doll, I’m not the one holding you captive. You are.”
Little doll? Breathing became an activity of the past. “How do I get rid of the stalks?”
“You haven’t learned to hold on to the stalks mystically,” he said, “so you must release your connection to them physically.” When he tapped his fingers on hers, she remembered the vines. Oh, yes. Right again. Yesterday, the stalks had withered when she’d ceased needing them. To her knowledge, she’d done nothing special.
