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I spin, taking it all in. Myself. The room. The buttery light from the bajillion windows. “I don’t see how you ever leave this room.”
Mack’s grin is practically blinding. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about my room. And I have something waiting for you that’s even better than eating frosting by the spoonful.”
I snort. “Wrong. There’s literally nothing better than—”
That’s when I feel it. Feel him. Like a shock of electricity straight to my core.
Valerian.
The Winter Prince is leaned against the stone balcony railing, looking panty-dropping gorgeous in a fitted black tee and dark skinny-jeans. Despite the summer heat, snowflakes swirl around him. The wind tousles his wavy inky-blue hair to one side, showing off its thickness, and I immediately imagine running my fingers through it.
His lips tug into a smirk.
Dammit. So much better than frosting.
My belly tightens as his dark gaze drops to the tight curve of my black athletic pants. He drinks me in, slowly, and I find myself drawn into his icy orbit. Pulled along by some stupid, invisible thread that grows stronger by the day.
Double dammit.
“Have fun with the ILB,” Mack teases, the psycho, before she busies herself in her bathroom.
ILB: Instant lady boner. Our favorite nickname for the Winter Prince. Since we can’t say his name aloud, and we chat about him a lot, he’s developed quite a few nicknames and acronyms.
SOAS: Sex on a stick. PESG: Pointy-eared sex god. FBD: Future baby daddy. Mack gets all the credit for that last one.
His dark stare draws me from my thoughts, and I peer at him behind my lashes, surprised by the intense swirl of emotions raging inside me.
Just like Mack, I haven’t seen Valerian for weeks. I thought, or maybe hoped, having him out of my life would lessen the attraction between us. He spent the last month hunting down the Fae responsible for nearly killing him in the Wild Hunt. Cal was a dead end.
Whoever Cal reports to, he’s been spelled with powerful magic not to tell.
Not that Valerian didn’t torture him anyway, just to be sure.
The phone Valerian sent me to keep in touch buzzes in my pocket. Grinning, I pull the iPhone out and stare at the message.
Valerian’s gorgeous face peers from my phone, along with the words, Happy birthday, Princess.
Pausing by a giant Andy Warhol style portrait of Mack, I type back, Someone figured out how to use the camera option.
Valerian’s court frowns on mortal trappings like technology. In fact, if his father knew he had a phone, he would probably flip.
My screen lights up in response. Why are you walking so slow?
Maybe I want to give you a show.
Holy crap. I stare at my words. Yes, idiot, you just said that.
I swore when I left school that Valerian was off limits, that the soulbond between us was too dangerous to accept—at least, until I can figure out what I want.
But here I am, flirting like a deranged sex addict.
I shove the phone into my pocket, resolve to control myself, and march toward him, only swaying my hips a little bit. But as soon as I slip onto the balcony, the heat of the New York summer gives way to delicious cold, and something inside my heart—where I feel the bond between us the most—jerks taut.
Whoa. I’d forgotten how intense that is.
My breath frosts out in a crystalline cloud, highlighting the space between us. Each inch feels like a mile.
What would it feel like to finally accept this thing? The one and only time we let ourselves give into it, the experience was beyond anything I’ve ever felt. Like, toe-curling, soul-leaving-my-body, mind-melting pleasure.
