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He breathed a laugh behind me and rubbed the hard zone between my neck and shoulders until I whined.

But finally the pain resided, after what felt like hours of fires igniting and fizzling out under his touch; it numbed to a dull ache at first, then turned comforting, thenpleasant. I breathed deeper and found that my shoulders no longer stretched so painfully tight, the tension driven from my body at last.

Still he didn’t stop.

This … I closed my eyes, revelling in the deep pressure of his palms on my skin, the firm satin of his touch. This was about the moment where I should tell him I was fine and get back to work, wasn’t it? I had no excuse to stall. Not if we might be leaving tomorrow, not if people might be making all the wrong plans while I was sitting here in this safe embrace of dusky faelights and autumn scents.

But his hands were warm and strong and comforting, kneading my shoulders with unfaltering intensity. And even though I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his wings, couldn’t see all that stupid muscle bulging under the linen and leather of his clothes …

His breath was growing strained behind me.

My body reacted to that sound in a twist of eagerness, razor-sharp anticipation piercing my guts. Oh.Oh. If his breath was hitching – if he felt my soft weight in his lap as much as I felt those hard ridges of his thighs beneath me – then surely he wouldn’t restrict himself to my shoulders alone?

A tingle trailed down my body, making me suddenly and desperately aware of my untouched breasts, of the brush of my dress over my pebbling nipples.

Wouldn’t he?

But his hands remained where they were, strong fingers rubbing and squeezing my neck and shoulders with a patience of centuries. I shivered, leaning closer against him, closer to his sculpted chest as it rose and sank, rose and sank, a slow cadence that made me feel drowsy and far, far too peaceful.

I was tired, I realised. A tiredness that had sunk deep into my bones, far too heavy for one night of decent sleep to chase it out again.

And why wasn’t hetouchingme?

That idiot promise I’d asked for – a groan escaped my lips before I could regain control of myself. The warmth of his touch was spreading from my shoulders to my belly and lower still, hankering for more, hankering fordeeper, and yet his hands didn’t follow. Not even as I nestled tighter against him. Not even as I rubbed my bottom against his crotch and received the familiar jolt of his arousal for my answer, not even as his breath hitched against my temple.

Zera help me, I was burning.

‘Creon.’ It was close to a moan. There was a hypnotising cadence to his circling fingers, rubbing any sense of urgency from my bones. ‘Creon … I …’

His hands paused on my shoulders. A wordless, signless question.

‘I should …’Get back to the library. Get back to work. The thoughts were still there, but hazy and unfocused – something with maps, and nothing I could care all that much about. ‘I can’t …’

One warm hand slid along my neck, stroking over my jaw and chin before it settled firmly over my lips, smothering the rest of my words.

In a last flare of defiance, I bit his finger.

Wrong move. He tasted like sin, like something musky and salty I couldn’t quite name – a faint echo of the taste of his seed on my tongue. I felt his laughter shake through his chest, felt the firmness of his finger probe deeper into my mouth, and the last of my defences crumbled as a blinding heat ignited at the apex of my thighs. I bit down again, harder now. Creon released my shoulder in reply, free hand slipping between my legs and yanking up my skirt with demanding strength.

His first stroke below my underwear found me drenched.

I arched towards him, my moans muffled against his hand on my mouth. My reward was a second finger sliding below my delicate underlinen; he effortlessly held me pinned in his lap as he drew a long, savouring line along my lips, all the way to where my slick entrance pulsed and clenched for his touch. There he waited, still like a cat in the moment before jumping – waited for me to act, to agree.

Hell take me, I didn’t want him waiting. Didn’t want an opportunity to make sensible choices, time to remember everything else I should have been doing. My exhausted mind craved simple and empty oblivion, a delirium that made me forget I cared about anything else in the world. If he insisted on beingcourteous…

I tilted my head back against his shoulder, shaking his hand off my face, and murmured, ‘I’ll just get back to reading then, shall I?’

Before he could react, I jumped.

I didn’t expect to get far, fleeing the Silent Death with trembling legs and messy skirts – and then he was even faster, a hunter as inevitable as the night itself. A flash of motion, a slap of wings, and he caught me just before I reached the door. His hands wrapped possessively around my waist, shoving me against the rune-carved wood; the weight of his body settled against my back, trapping me in a cage of warmth and power and the scent of sweet autumn. He planted his hands on either side of my shoulders. His erection pressed hungrily against my lower back, a perfect companion to his rough breath at my ear.

‘I’m gathering …’ Was I moaning or laughing or sobbing? Gasps of air wrestled themselves from my lungs, my voice squeaky in that prison of smooth wood and hot muscle. ‘I’m gathering that you’re not in favour of reading, Your Highness?’

His rough exhale was close to a growl. I fumbled blindly for his wings, only for his fingers to lock around my wrists the next moment. He yanked my arms behind my back, pinning them in place with one hand. His other slipped between my body and the door, starting a slow descent across my belly – skimming down and down and …

I forgot to breathe.

Down.