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“But beyond all of that,” Griffin kept on, his voice laced with heat just like she was, and something like greed, “you’re also wrong. You have no idea the things I want to do to you.”
“Then do them,” Melody managed to say. “I dare you.”
“Careful what you wish for, wife.”
There was too much heat and noise inside her, making her limbs feel heavy. She felt sluggish. And yet, at the same time, hectic.
It was as if she had a sudden fever. She even felt weak.
But not, she understood in the next moment, in any way ill.
And there would never be a better time than this. So much for attempting seduction, she thought. Fen was right. She was terrible at it. It was high time she tried a more direct approach.
Following an urge so overwhelming it hurt, Melody closed that last, scant bit of space between them and pressed her lips to his.
She remembered their perfunctory kiss at the altar. She’d had the impression of firmness, maleness, but that was all.
This was different.
Griffin went still. Radically still.
And she could feel the heat in him, all that marvelous, leashed power, while he held himself back as if he was afraid of hurting her. Or overwhelming her.
Melody, on the other hand, was not afraid at all.
She slid her hands up to loop them around the strong column of his neck.
And then...she played.
Once, when she’d been a teenager, she’d kissed one of the statues that lined the atrium in her father’s house. Because it was shaped like a man, and Calista had told her about kissing. Melody had wanted to know what it was like.
She remembered the cool marble. The impenetrable seam between those fine, chiseled lips.
This was like that and not like that at all.
Because Griffin was alive. Hard, yes, but not like marble.
He was so much better than stone.
So she entertained herself. She kissed him, angling her head this way, then that. But it was not until she slipped her tongue against that same seam, just to taste him better, that she shuddered.
“You have no idea how to kiss, do you?” His voice was raw. A scrape against the night, and deep into her, too.
“Teach me,” she whispered.
Griffin made another one of those low, shockingly male noises that made everything inside her burn hotter. While between her legs, she felt slippery.
His hands moved from her shoulders and she protested that with a little noise, but only until he took her face between his palms.
Then Prince Griffin, Idylla’s favorite scourge, set his mouth to hers.
And devoured her.
It was like falling. It was like tumbling through space, caught up in the waves of the sea and tossed this way and that, but it didn’t ever end.
What he did to her mouth bore no resemblance to the kisses she’d given him, sweeping them away in a blaze of fire.
Griffin used his tongue, his teeth. He ate at her mouth, sometimes making more of those lush, dirty sounds that made her ache. That made this strange fever burn hotter, leaving her weaker and desperate for more.
