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Now I had given Draven a full spectacle. Me—wet and naked from head to toe, the robe doing little more than showcasing my damp breasts, the planes of my stomach, and the patch of dark silver hair between my thighs.
Even now the thin satin clung to my damp breasts, my nipples pressing against the fabric in the cool night air.
Belatedly, I realized Draven was breathing hard. I looked at him. He was stripped to the waist. His skin was perfectly smooth, a shade of dark honey. A thick lock of black hair tumbled carelessly over his forehead. He always wore it longer than most men. My fingers clenched. I realized I was resisting lifting them to push it gently off his face.
His disarmingly green eyes were set in a face of such ideal male beauty that he looked like one of the sculptures carved into the facade of the Summer Palace itself. Some warrior from ancient days, preparing to don his armor.
But clearly Draven had been taking his clothes off, not putting them on.
With that thought a rush of heat went through me. I stared at his tautly muscled chest and the swirling black hairs.
We were alone.
But more alone than we were normally in our suite. Somehow here, in this place, away from the court, I felt very differently tonight. I wondered if he did, too.
No one was watching. It was only the two of us.
I felt paralyzed with indecision and heady with the knowledge that anything might happen.
Even the wrong thing.
“Fuck, Morgan,” Draven said again, his voice hoarse. “I can't unsee that.”
“Why should you?” I said flippantly.
I flicked my damp hair over my shoulders, even though I knew doing so meant raising my arms, letting my breasts lift higher against the satin and giving him a better view. “I'm through with the bathing room. Was that what you came to ask? You can go ahead.”
I started to turn away, but a hand shot out and grasped my arm, pulling me back again.
“Fuck,” Draven said for a third time. The crude word was like poetry coming from his lips. “This is a very bad idea.”
“What is...” I started to say.
And then his lips descended on mine, crushing them mercilessly.
This was happening. Draven's arms closed around me, one hand gripping the back of my neck.
I felt myself going limp as I molded against him, letting the heat and scent and power of him engulf me. He pulled me closer. I could hardly breathe. I didn't really care about breathing anymore. The kiss was everything.
I drank deep, taking in more. Distantly, I felt his hands fumbling with the belt of my robe.
I let him.
He pushed the satin fabric from my shoulders and I felt my breasts hit his chest, bare skin against skin. I moaned.
Then the robe was being pushed onto the floor and Draven was lifting me up and carrying me to the bed.
My legs wrapped around his waist, and I writhed against him shamelessly, arching myself back, desperate for every bit of contact.
When we reached the bed, I cringed, not wanting him to put me down.
He lay me on it with absolute gentleness, then stood above me for a moment, looking down with those fathomless green eyes.
He looked godlike and beautiful. The air around him practically thrummed with sexual tension. He was hard and flinty, rough and powerful, beautiful and full of grace.
He made my heart ache in every sense. Being near him was an exquisite torture and always had been.
He was every contradiction, soft and hard at the same time, brutal and yet gentle.
