Page 15 of Autumn Ritual

“You haunt me,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.

She shivered.

I bent and pressed a kiss against the smooth skin of her shoulder. “Cold, angel?”

“No!” she snapped, but the words didn’t carry a spike of anger since they were so breathy.

I reached for my belt. “Good.”

The leather slipped through my jeans. The noise was innocent enough. Not as powerful as shadows, but it would serve.

Sara stiffened at the sound.

Time to see if she really did have main character energy.

I already knew she did.

The house sighed around us, the old pipes knocking once somewhere in the walls. Her shoulders rose with a breath and fell, and something in that small movement undid me completely.

When the leather brushed against her shoulder, she went rigid.

“Hey—” Her voice was thick with confusion. She started to step away but hit the wall. “What the hell?”

“No.” My voice came out low, a register she didn’t recognize. “Don’t run.”

She froze.

I felt the question in her muscles before she could form it. The instinct to pull away warred with something else. Curiosity, maybe? Or the same charged energy that had hummed between us at the ball.

I brought the belt around the banister spindle first, then her right wrist. A zing of electricity zapped at the contact. She made a small sound as I looped the length and pulled it snug. The sound made my dick jerk. He pulsed against the seam of my jeans, but tonight wasn’t about him. It was about my little captive. This angel, who I’d caught in the dark. I cinched the knot. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt. Her skin was warm under my fingers. Almost feverish. I groaned, wanting to touch more of her.

“What are you doing?” Her whisper had an edge now, hesitation cutting through the fog.

I didn’t answer.

This was as close to the scene she’d written today as I could create.

My hands found her left wrist and brought it to meet the right, binding them together around the spindle with a quick, practiced knot. The leather strained against the wood with a soft creak.

“‘I told you that if you survived the arena, there would be a reward.’” I repeated the words from the screen. “‘You did well, Death. I’ve never seen a troll split in half.’”

The authoress recognized her character’s words and choked on a breath. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.” I drew the tip of my finger down her cheek. “‘Spread your legs, Death.’”

My girl vibrated with excitement. I wished there was more light to see the way her eyes were glittering right now. Those midnight orbs were capable of capturing stars and reflecting their light.

Sara tested the bonds once. A short, sharp tug that went nowhere.

“Please,” she said. The word had no direction—please stop, or please continue, I couldn’t tell which. Maybe she didn’t know either.

I stepped back to examine my work. The angel was mostly silhouette. I drank in the sight of the dark fall of her hair, the slope of her shoulders, the way her bound hands were lifted slightly above the banister as if in offering.

I knelt.

The hardwood was cold through the fabric of my jeans. Sara’s legs were spread in front of me, her feet bare, her toes curled against the wood grain. I could smell the faint soap scent of her recent shower. Roses. Warm and lush from the heat of her skin. I wet my lips, eager for a taste.

My hands found the waistband of her pajama pants. I hooked my thumbs under the elastic and drew them down in one slow motion. Sara made a sound. The sharp intake of breath ended in a soft moan. Her hips lifted slightly, involuntarily, making the task easier. The shorts slid over her thighs and pooled at her knees, and then she was exposed to me in the dark, nothing between us but the thin cotton of her underwear and the thicker darkness that hid my face from her view.