With a guttural shout, Hugh reared back and punched Kip using the full force of his whip-tight body.
Embers floated through the air and sputtered to black atop the grass and the nearby bodies of the poor guards, while the suffocating stench of brimstone drenched the site. Hugh’s breath steamed in great dragon-like puffs, and his body faintly smoked.
The troll laughed and wiped his bloody nose with the back of his wrist before standing.
“Kick that demon’s minuscule but remarkably tight ass!” Catching Gwen’s incredulous stare, Lorrie shrugged. “I have eyes too, bro.”
Then the two males flew at each other, and the fight was trulyon.
7
The battle ended in a draw several minutes later, after Hugh proved unable to break Kip’s headlock but somehow managed to land a vicious backward kick to his opponent’s—apparently very large, apparently very sensitive—testicles.
It was a surprisingly ungentlemanly move, but it worked.
With a choked whimper, Kip collapsed on the brown grass, curling up like an oversized shrimp and protectively clutching his balls. Hugh celebrated his triumph with a wordless shout, neck tendons taut, fists clenched as his sweat-dampened chest heaved with each harsh breath.
If she didn’t know better, Gwen might even have called the emotion in his roarsincere.
Then he stalked in her direction, all bruises and blood and salty skin. Frozen in bewilderment, she simply stared up at him as he approached. And when he reached down and swept her toher feet with surprising strength, she didn’t resist. Wasn’t even tempted to.
After Kip’s doubled-over surrender, Hugh’s sulfurous stench had faded into a strong but pleasant smoky smell. Gwen’s gasp dragged the scent deep into her lungs as he firmly hauled her against his slim, battered body.
The heat of that body in the battle’s immediate aftermath verged on uncomfortable. Or at least it would have if she weren’t so freaking cold. Under the circumstances, though, she only pressed closer, because he felt astoundingly good wrapped around her—and not just because of his welcome warmth.
One long hand flattened on her lower back, and she instinctively arched to press against it as an electric jolt traveled up her spine. His other hand carefully gripped her nape under her rumpled braid. He bent low, as if poised to drag his open mouth up her neck, and spoke a single word—a single question—into her ear.
His voice was a hoarse thread of sound. “Yes?”
Was he asking permission to keep hugging her? To kiss her? To consummate their fictional love in front of assorted onlookers?
If she liked, she could tell herself that her response was prompted solely by the need for a persuasive performance in front of skeptical critics. But she’d forgotten councilors and troops and trolls. If asked, couldn’t have recalled her age or recited her address.
His name, though—thatwas emblazoned on her every thought. And whatever he wanted from her right now, her answer was the same.
“Hugh.” Instinctively, her fingers buried themselves in his thick, soft hair and curled tight, trapping him close. “Yes.”
With the lightest possible tug on her braid, he tipped her head back.
Then he kissed her.
He tasted like salted caramel on the verge of scorching. All sweetness and saline, with a hint of that telltale smoke. His lips glided and clung softly, beguilingly, to her own, and she willingly opened them for more.
When his tongue slid along her lower lip, an electric bolt of heat detonated between her legs. His mouth captured her small, raw sound of pleasure, drinking it down as he glided his splayed hand slowly up her back and patiently, meticulously destroyed her.
A throat cleared. Very loudly and much too close.
Gwen startled, but Hugh didn’t end the embrace right away. Instead, he rubbed her back soothingly, even as his kiss gentled to a sweet, chaste press of lips. When he finally lifted his head, he looked only at her. Not at his SERC colleagues, who hovered impatiently nearby.
Okay?he mouthed, and she nodded. But if she counted the sorry state of her common sense, that was a damn lie.
She’d cast aside all her foolish dreams at eighteen years old, so she should have no trouble acknowledging the truth: He didn’t want her. He was pretending.Again.
But gods and goddesses above, that kiss hadfeltreal. As real as anything she’d ever experienced. And this wasn’t the best time to indulge silly fantasies, but here she was. Indulging.
When he helped her back down onto the quilt, she acceptedhis assistance and thanked him for it. Agreed when he urged her to sit and rest while he dealt with the other councilors. Offered to treat his many wounds and accepted his polite refusal in an equally polite fashion.
Then, once he’d turned to address his colleagues, she licked her swollen lips to taste him one more time. Because evidently one foolish, furtive dreamhadsurvived the past twenty years, despite her best efforts.
