Page 66 of Their Wicked Cage

“Do you want me to touch you, little witch?” he asks.

I came here to give him a gift, not to offer myself to him like something silk-wrapped and reckless. But, by Dagny, the way he’s looking at me, like he’d touch me even without the potion, makes me forget why this is an incredibly bad idea.

Which must be why I exhale a breathless, “Yes.”

His eyes spark. “Yes?”

“It’s just sex,” I say, voice husky. “There’s obviously an attraction here”—I gesture vaguely between us, throat tightening—“and we both clearly need the release. As long as this doesn’t interfere with finding you a bride and breaking your curse, I don’t see the harm.”

“Right,” he says, already uncorking the vial. “Just sex.”

He downs the potion in one swift swallow.

His hands are on me an instant later, touching my skin, cupping my face, as his lips press firmly against mine. Time seems to stand still as our mouths explore one another’s.

When he pulls away, I whisper, “You all right?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says, stunned. Then, quieter, as solemn as a prayer, “Gwyn, it doesn’t hurt.” He scoops me up into his arms and spins me around, laughing. “You brilliant, beautiful witch. It doesn’t hurt.”

That’s freedom lighting up his face as bright as any illumination show.

He’s kissing me between laughs, and I’m not sure if it’s his pure joy or the way he tosses me onto his bed that steals the breath from my lungs.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, bending to kiss my shin, the inner corner of my knee, my thigh. “What if your potion backfires and my pain rebounds on you?”

“It won’t. But even if it did, I don’t mind a little pain, Riven,” I say. “I quite like it, if I’m being honest.”

“Well then, little witch.” His eyes are liquid hot, like starlight as it falls from the night sky. “If we’re going to do this, you’re going to tell me precisely what you like.”

I scramble to formulate a sentence as he unties my robe and tosses the silken tie to the floor. The silk falls open, revealing a barely-there chemise adorned with lace. There’s a hungry noise in the back of his throat as he slides my nightgown up and off. He kisses just above my underthings, the soft skin of my stomach, the hard edge of my ribcage.

“Tell me, Gwyn,” he purrs, lips dragging against me, marking every inch.

“I like— Ah!” His tongue drags beneath the underside of my breast and up over my nipple. “That, I like that. But, also, teeth.”

“Grazing?” His teeth skim my peak. He clamps down on it and sucks, releasing it with a crisp popping sound. “Or do you prefer a bit of biting?”

“Both,” I say, squirming beneath his thorough exploration of my body. “But only the latter when it leaves… marks.”

He leans back to meet my eyes. “What kind of marks?” His focus is too intense, and I can’t tell if he’s into the idea or repulsed by it. I swallow and look away. He gently tilts my face back toward him. “Tell me what kind of marks, Gwyn.”

“Love bites,” I say, then add, “and bruises. But if that’s too strange…”

“It’s not.” He leans in and brushes a kiss against my mouth. His breath is hot as he asks, “What else?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I want to know exactly how to touch you, how to ruin you.” He captures my bottom lip between his teeth and tugs on it. “I want to master the exact rhythm that unravels you.”

That declaration alone is enough to send a flood of heat through me.

“Tell me, little witch, precisely how you want me to pleasure you.”

“I think it’s obvious that I like things a little rough,” I say, threading my fingers through his soft hair.

“Nothing is ever too obvious.” He holds my gaze. There isn’t a flicker of pain contorting his features, no lick of tension in his shoulders. The potion must be holding, though I’m unsure how long the numbing effects will last. Hopefully, longer than either of us. “If we’re going to do this, I want to know everything. Your yesses and your nos.” He nips at my neck, and I arch into him. “What else is a yes for you?”

“It might be quicker if we go over my nos.”