Page 90 of The Crimson Throne
That’s all I need. Some unspoken permission, just one word: safe.
Then she’s in my arms again, and I sigh so mightily, I’d be embarrassed if not for the music dragging me sweetly along.
Alyth laughs. “Fae music can be a bit strong the first time. Don’t worry. There are no lasting effects.”
“Mm.” I don’t care. Not about anything now. She said it’s safe, she said it won’t hurt her, so I’m letting the magic take me, not strong enough to resist.
I’m holding her again, her warm body pressed to mine, one arm around her waist and the other pushing up the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.
Her breath catches. The grate of it in her lungs, the hiss of it on her tongue…I want to chase it.
Some sense knocks back into me, and instead of kissing her, I press my face into the curve of her shoulder. “Alyth. I don’t know what’s—just, I need a moment, all right? Then we can—”
I’m babbling. I don’t babble. But I keep laying words like that into the soft, warm skin on the side of her neck, apologizing and begging, because I’m not worthy of this. Doesn’t she know? And she’s letting me. She’s letting me hold her.
And I think—she’s moving with me. We’re dancing in a way, not unlike how we were in Mary’s castle, only…no, it’s very unlike how we were in Mary’s castle. There, I was half certain Alyth would run off atany moment. Now? She’s holding me too. She’s stroking her fingers through my hair and rocking her hips at the prodding of my hand on her lower back, and I curse every layer of our winter clothes keeping me from feeling her curves.
I want to rip each bit of cloth off her with my teeth.
Want to drag those teeth down her shoulder, across her chest, nipping at her stomach, at her hip, at her—
I whimper, and Christ, it’s pathetic. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
“It’s all right, Samson,” she whispers, something in her tone pitching low, matching the drop of the music, both things combining to wreak havoc on my willpower. She sounds strung out too. Her grip tightens in my hair, and I mewl into the hollow of her throat.
“It’s all right,” she says again, and she’s dancing, leading us in the gentle movement this music demands. She’s leading us, and when she says it again, “It’s all right,” I don’t think she’s talking to me. She’s saying it to herself.
I nod against her, hands roaming up her back, shoving her cloak aside so I can touch at least her gown, feel a little less of a barrier between us. Her shoulder blades are sharp as cliffs, and I dig my fingers in until she hisses; then I memorize the knobs of her spine, letting each one prick me like thorns.
It’s the song. It’s drugging me, freeing me, something. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.
But it is. It’s what I want, what I’ve wanted from the first moment I saw her in that border town, and I cling to her tighter, my breathing turning to ragged, desperate pants.
She’s breathing harder too until she peels my face out of her neck.
I think she’s meaning to push me away, and I go willingly, ever at herdisposal.
Only she holds my face just back from hers. Enough distance for us to see each other, her dark eyes shining so very, very bright.
“Alyth,” I say, and it’s a plea, a question; I might as well drop to my knees at her feet. It’s what she deserves, someone bowing to her, someone at her command.
Her expression grows serious. Studious. Ever thinking, this girl, ever turning over the situation, and before I can catch up with her, she’s lifting onto her toes, using her grip on my hair to angle my face down, and kissing me.
23
Alyth
Samson is full of wonder at the goblin market, and rightly so—its whole design is to provoke amazement.
But it’s his caress that fills my heart with such utter awe that my entire body freezes, unable to process just how glorious it is, to feel his lips on mine, his tongue against mine as he deepens the kiss. His hands grip me as if I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning, but does he know that it’s his tight embrace that is the only thing keeping me from melting into the cobblestones?
My every sense sparks to life at his touch. His hands rove up my back, sending liquid warmth along my spine. His mouth shifts to my jaw, my neck, my ear, and every urgent nip and hot breath on my skin becomes a pinpoint of pleasure that borders on pain, the need so great, the desireburninginside me.
Dancing to fae music lowers inhibitions, yes, but this is not that.
This is coming from within, right at my very core, a need I have never known to be so strong before. Not just for a connection but forhisconnection. I have danced to fae music many times, but never have I danced likethis,like our clothing is a curse, like the only way to satiate the rising need inside me is for there to be nothing at all between us and no one else around us.
I groan, and his body tenses, his hold tightening against me. Breathless, I dare to pull back and look into his eyes, and I see that exact same desire in his dark gaze. I lift my hands, trailing my finger up his back, behind his neck, through his hair, and his lids drop, his mouth parting, a shuddering sigh drifting down.
