Page 25 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

This is a different type of duel, one not marked by the clashing of swords, but by the torture of restraint. By cruel words volleyed back and forth. It’s less violent, yet easily as dangerous.

I remain motionless as she reaches out a trembling hand. Presses it finger by finger along my chest.

My breath catches. I’ve done everything there is to do with a woman, yet somehow this simple touch threatens to undo me.

Her other hand is next. She marvels at me, eyes narrowing in focus, lips parted in wonder, like I’m something interesting to be studied, not a monster with thousands of kills on my blade.

Not a warrior who mere hours ago reduced dozens of creatures to dust. She bites her bottom lip, and at the minor action my body responds, making me grimace.

Isla is breathing more heavily now, testing the precarious scraps of silk barely covering her chest. I’ve never hated and loved silk so much in my long life.

I study the thin straps, the plunging neckline, the shape of her breasts outlined by the fabric.

She notices the direction of my gaze. I anticipate a retort. Instead, she steps forward.

Into me. Suddenly, a very specific part of me is pressed against her warmth radiating through the flimsy dress. She traces the large scar in the center of my chest, then lower. Lower.

“Hearteater.” The word is a warning, scraped out of the deepest depths of my self-control. We’ve taken this too far already. Her eyes snap to meet mine.

She doesn’t heed my warning. Instead, she lifts to her toes, as if to get even closer. It does little to bridge the space between us; she still isn’t even close to my height. She frowns and falls back on her heels. But her expression is resolute. It fills me both with desire ... and dread.

Part of me wants to warn her to stay away. To tell her this can only end badly. To convince her that I’m dangerous. That she can’t trust me.

Another selfish—much larger—part aches to grab her by the waist, to lift her to my height, to engulf her.

To show her every way a person can experience pleasure.

To give her that pleasure, over and over, and watch as it washes over her.

But I can’t, not until I hear those words, the ones just weeks ago she swore she wouldn’t—

“Touch me.” It is a command. “ Please .”

I freeze. There is no way ... there’s no way I heard her correctly. I remain very still.

She frowns. She runs her hands even further down my body, dangerously close to the pulsing part of me, as if to demonstrate her meaning. “ Please , Grim, would you just touch —”

It’s all I need to hear. I end her sentence with my mouth, claiming her as mine.

Again. The first time happened in the heat of a moment—quickly, too quickly to enjoy.

It ended with a blade through my chest. This time, though, I tilt her head back, grip the base of it at the nape of her neck, and taste her completely. The first taste left me pining for her.

Now, I’m well and truly addicted.

I lick the top of her mouth, I lick across her teeth, I lick her so thoroughly that she’ll taste me for days.

She moans into my mouth, and a growl escapes me in response.

There is something primal about this. Possessive on both our parts, from the way she’s pulling my hair to get me to kiss her harder, to the way my thumbs are stroking her pulse.

“You know,” I whisper into her ear. “I really like this dress.” I slowly trace its plunging neckline, fingers slipping far down her chest. Her pulse quickens below my hands, and I linger, tracing her body beneath the fabric, watching her arch her back slightly, leaning into my touch. Leaning into me . “But it’s in my way.”

I grip the silk with both hands—and tear it straight down the center.

I don’t stop there. The dress never stood a chance. Its time was up the moment I saw it, daring to cling to her as tightly as I intend to myself. Within moments, it becomes shreds of fabric on the floor, and she is completely bare before me.

That’s when I realize I’ve never known pleasure. I’ve never known beauty. I’ve never known want. For five hundred years, I’ve been a stranger to all of it.

I know that for certain when I see her undressed.

But what I feel at the sight of her— all of her—isn’t just desire. There’s something else, something unexpected.

Gratitude.

Gratitude for the universe allowing something so beautiful to exist. Something so perfect, it defies logic.

Gratitude that she came here , to my room, risking everything.

Gratitude that she begged me to touch her. And that we have hours for me to do so.

I must have been staring at her for a long time, because she begins folding into herself, covering with her hands what her dress had concealed. Panicking. She sits down on the edge of the bed. I taste a flare of embarrassment.

“Is ... something wrong?” she asks.

I have to laugh. Wrong?

“Nothing, absolutely nothing, is wrong with you, Hearteater,” I say.

She asked me to touch her.

I will do so thoroughly.

I carefully remove the hands that were covering her chest and replace them with my own, my thumbs brushing her sensitive peaks, making her skin prickle.

Then, I replace those with my mouth. Perfect .

Every part of her is perfect . I gently peel apart the thighs that she shut closed.

Slide a hand down her smooth stomach, until I reach the part of her that will answer my question if she’s aching just as much as I am.

She is. I feel it, and growl again. “Are you always like this around me?”

Isla gasps at my touch. Then she glares. I grin. I can’t help it. I love it when she looks at me like that, if only because I know I have her full attention.

“You certainly think highly of yourself,” she says, her voice breathless.

I let my longest finger wander, and a soft moan escapes her. “It’s hard not to, when I can feel the effect I have on you. Tell me, Hearteater, has anyone ever touched you like this?”

She ignores me. I continue, and her eyes flutter closed. I feel her pleasure thrumming down my skin like a caress.

“Is it just me who elicits this response?”

Her head falls back, her chest bared to me.

“No need to reply. The sounds you’re making are all the confirmation I need.”

She scowls. “You just like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Her breath hitches as I go faster. Harder.

My grin widens. “I do. But I like to hear you talk more. So, tell me.” I stop. Remove my hand.

The disappointment on her face at the lack of contact pleases a deep, animalistic part of me. “Are you always like this around me?” My original question.

She scoffs. “Are you always this desperate for validation?”

I shake my head. “No. Not from anyone. Only you.” It’s true. Perhaps that’s why I want her to say it—to admit in words that she wants this as much as I do.

She blinks.

“If you want me to continue, answer my question.” My own chest is heaving. I’m aching more than ever before. “Please.” I used to hate that word, I went centuries without speaking it at all.

But for her, I’ll say it. I’ll go on my knees and beg.

Even with the plea, I expect a cruel response. A stubborn retort. But just like she has melted me down, it seems my own touch has made her tire of being clever.

“Yes,” she says, and any string of sanity related to her that I have left snaps. She wraps her arms around my neck. Her nails dig into my skin. Her mouth is at my ear. “Always,” she whispers.

I’m unleashed.

My hands grip her waist, lifting her into the air.

I hook her feet behind me and bring us both onto the bed.

By the time I lay her across my sheets, my hand is already back between her legs.

These dreams, now they’re happening. Right where I’ve had them.

I start slow, then faster. Deeper. Deeper .

She moans into my mouth as I fill her. Her chest is pressed against mine.

I lean down so that she can hear every word I’m about to utter.

She cries out, as I quicken my pace. As I curl my fingers. “Next time, I’ll use my mouth. And then, after that—”

I’m cut off by the feeling of her own hand on me, on the part of me that’s been aching since the moment I saw her sitting on my bed.

My heart races. I curse beneath my breath. Something about her touch turns my veins to flame.

It takes every bit of restraint for me to remove her hand, using the one of mine that isn’t busy, lacing our fingers together, and pinning them over her head.

“Let me focus on you.” I lean down so that I can watch her.

“I don’t want to miss a moment of this.” Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed with color, with pleasure that tastes like her, everywhere, like she’s running her nails down some invisible bridge between us.

Her back arches toward me. Her hips writhe against my hand.

I know I’m going to be picturing this exact moment for many nights to come, and I wish, for once, that I can capture this moment in time and play it over and over.

“That’s it, Hearteater,” I say. “Make it good for you.”

I watch her use me. I give her everything she demands until she’s panting with pleasure, until her toes are curling with it, until she cries out my name. Until she’s pulsing around my fingers, and my blinding pleasure makes me almost crest with her, even though she isn’t touching me at all.

“Remember this, Hearteater,” I say, barely keeping my own composure, “the next time you want to stab me through the chest.”

Then, I swallow her final moans with my mouth and pull her to me, one hand splayed across her lower back. I hold her like I always meant to—like I intend on never letting her go, like I’m afraid the world might try to take her from me.

Minutes later, I set her down and look at her face. I catalogue her each and every emotion.

Her green eyes are wide, their expression sharp and gleaming. Her gaze slips down to the aching part of me, then back to my eyes, as she says, very clearly, “I’ll remember.”