Page 44 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

He lifted a hand, cupped her cheek, and kissed her softly, once then again, until her hands tangled in his hair, the strands silky beneath her touch. The floor beneath them was hard, unyielding, and he murmured against her lips, “Not here.”

Rising, he offered his hand and drew her to her feet, guiding her back toward the bed.

His hands were steady at her waist, unhurried and sure, as he freed her from her clothing.

Each button undone was a truth unfastened between them until skin met skin until there was nothing left between them but heat and need.

He urged her down on her back and his gaze tracked the line of bare skin, unapologetic. A thread of want tightened low in her belly, gentler than last night, but no less sure

“This is different,” she murmured, surprised at her own shyness and surprised again by the courage that rose to meet it.

“It is,” he agreed. His thumb stroked the corner of her mouth, slow, deliberate. His voice lowered, rough with meaning. “Last night was storm. This is…ours.”

Her breath caught. Ours. That word undid her.

She answered not with speech but with her lips on his, offering herself.

He took what she gave and demanded more, until all she knew was the stroke of his lips, his tongue, the soft graze of his teeth, the feel of his hands on her waist, her legs, her breasts. Heat unfurled, an unquiet tide.

When she touched the scars laddering his thigh, he caught her hand, not to stay her touch, but to join, palm over palm.

Bending over him, she let her lips brush one pale seam, and his breath shuddered as if she had kissed not only his flesh, but his pain and grief as well.

Her hand slid along his thigh, higher, until her fingers closed around the hard length of him. She had imagined, wondered , but reality was heat and weight and a silken smoothness over steel. He made a raw sound, and her own breath caught.

Curiosity tugged her further. She bent and laid a tentative kiss on his shaft, tasting salt, skin, him.

His hand tightened in her hair. With a small, secret smile, she ran her tongue from base to tip, then closed her lips around the broad head and kissed him with lips and tongue as he had kissed her mouth.

She felt his restraint trembling, his need barely held in check.

The power of it, of his strength undone by her touch, sent a bolt of heat through her.

“Isabella,” he whispered, only her name, need and wonder threaded through it.

She climbed astride him, the sheet slipping away. His pupils widened, the gray iris all but swallowed, and for an instant they only looked at one another. It felt like another threshold crossed, another choice.

Then she leaned in and kissed him again, lips and tongues and teeth. A tight coil of heat twisted deep inside her.

He groaned, head falling back as his hands rose to her breasts, shaping them, pinching her nipples lightly, then harder, until she arched and moaned. Her skin flushed hot, her pulse galloping.

“Tell me if you are sore—” he began, voice raw.

“I will,” she said. “But do not be careful as if I might break. Be careful as if I matter.”

For a moment he stilled, as though her words had struck deep. Then something fierce and tender both crossed his face. “You matter,” he said, and her vision blurred with tears, not of sorrow but of relief, of being wholly seen. She bent and kissed the words from his lips.

Sliding one hand between them, he stroked her core, teasing her until she felt hot and needy, desire building, sharp-edged and tight. She whimpered and writhed, aching for more.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

He bared his teeth, a smile that was all hunger. Panting, she shifted her weight, bringing her wet folds to rest against his shaft, sliding back and forth, teasing them both.

Catching her waist, he guided her down, taking his time, his length filling her. The stretch was sharp, then pleasing, her body opening to him, taking him, their breaths breaking together as he seated himself fully. She gasped at the feel of him, at the way her body clenched around him, greedy.

Each thrust was a slick glide, both sore and sweet, pain reshaping itself into pleasure with each thrust until her toes curled and her thighs trembled. Instinct took over, and she found an angle that made her cry out, that made him groan deep in his chest.

Their rhythm changed, faster now, deeper, a little rough. She clutched at his shoulders, nails biting, as if she could anchor herself against the current. He kissed her hard, desperate, swallowing her sounds.

When the crest came, it felt like a dam breaking wide, surprising her with the sudden peak, tearing her over the edge. She cried out, unguarded, just as he thrust hard and deep. He came undone with a strangled groan, head thrown back, body taut as he throbbed inside her.

She fell forward across his chest. He buried his face in her neck, holding her as if he would never let her go.

For a time, they stayed tangled, breaths ragged, hearts hammering. The house kept its counsel. She lay listening to the hitch and fall of their breaths, the way their heartbeats, after a time, found the same pace.

“We can make no promises,” she whispered. Not forever. Not even tomorrow.

“We can,” he said, pulling back to look at her, expression raw and fierce. “We can promise that neither will face what waits alone.”

Her throat closed. She tucked herself against him, his heart steady beneath her palm, wanting to stay like this forever, knowing their time flew too fast.

A faint, wrong draft crept under the door then, cold as the inside of a well. It licked her ankles and withdrew, a serpent’s tongue testing the air for prey.