Page 31

She gasped as his fingers worked their way inside her. Too much. Not enough. The catch of his knuckles, the sliding, intimate caress. Sensation too sharp to bear, rising to a wave that pulsed through her until she cried out, arching up onto his hand, gone beyond her body for a few seconds.

Everything went woolly around the edges, her breath coming in harsh gasps. Vulnerability lay sharply under her skin as she fell back into physicality.

His eyes were dark and hungry, watching her. Withdrawing his hand, he brought it to his mouth, tasting his slick fingers.

“My damnation,” he murmured. His other hand was wrapped around his cock, beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Abruptly she couldn’t bear to be exposed beneath the intensity of his gaze. She pushed him away, pushed him until he was the one with his back pressed against a hard stone pillar, his grip replaced by her own.

He made a sound of surprised enthusiasm, straining into her touch as she got to work, filled with a conflicted need to both punish and pleasure him.

He wanted her, indisputably, and it was glorious but ultimately hollow.

This wasn’t really him, this elaborate fantasy, shockingly detailed though it was.

It made something bitter rise in her, filling her with a different, darker desire.

It wasn’t enough for him to want her; she needed more.

She needed him to feel as much in her power as she’d once felt herself to be in his. She needed his surrender.

“You’re mine,” she told him, holding his gaze as she stroked him from root to tip.

He hissed out a breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers, hot and dark. The bond between them vibrated with the sense-echo of his emotions, intense and conflicted.

“You’re mine,” she repeated, felt the gasping ripple of agreement in his body in response to her words, a yearning to be claimed that equalled the strength of her desire to claim him. Yes, he was hers. It wasn’t enough. She needed to hear it from his lips. “Say you’re mine, my Malediction.”

His body arched, straining into her touch. His expression was caught between pain and pleasure. “I-I can’t.”

“Say it.”

She could taste how badly he wanted to obey, his desire to surrender to her will and body, to let her sweep them both under.

It mixed with her own arousal, shivering pleasure through her.

And yet, a sharp counterpoint of resistance spiked through the heightened emotions.

He couldn’t do this again, couldn’t risk losing himself to a stronger will. Couldn’t?—

“Say it!” she demanded, triumph thrilling through her.

He shuddered and opened his mouth to speak. “I’m y–”

The world jerked, and the dream dissolved. She lay panting in her unfamiliar bed, throbbing with thwarted desire, unable to rid herself of the image of Mal’s tormented eyes.

Why can’t I have nice simple erotic dreams? She flopped to her other side, restless with frustrated arousal. Why couldn’t she also enjoy said erotic dreams to completion before they were interrupted by reality and she had to remember why she shouldn’t be having them?

Now that she was awake, it felt wrong to continue the fantasy, or at least, far less satisfying.

All the reasons not to were swarming back, not least of which was that she was going to have to face the man across the breakfast table in the morning and pretend she hadn’t imagined touching his cock through silk trousers. Argh.

It was so humiliating the way her subconscious had fixated on Mal, even if she understood why, in pure logic terms. Setting aside their magical connection, his physical appeal, and even her own touch-deprivation—which was all, admittedly, a lot to set aside—the bone-stark truth was that she’d lived too many years feeling unwanted, and specifically feeling unwanted by Malediction .

Of course her subconscious provided her with a version who couldn’t resist her.

This was not even the first time it had done so, although the dream Malediction featuring in her shameful erotic fantasies as a teen had been a much vaguer figure.

She’d thought she’d grown out of them, but clearly being in the same house with the man was bringing it all back to the surface, this time with added eroticism. Nipple rings!

How could Dagomir’s Mixture have failed her?

She sat up. “Skymallow? Can you give me a light?” The house obligingly set a feylight glowing on her bedside table. “Thank you.”

She rooted around in her pillowcase, but the little packet of herbs she’d put there wasn’t in evidence. It must have fallen out, but a hunt through the bedclothes turned up no sign of it. Scowling at her mattress, she was startled out of her ruminations by a loud crash.

She pivoted, adrenaline pumping through her. The smashed shards of a vase from the mantelpiece lay scattered across the carpet, though Skymallow swallowed them even as she watched.

It wasn’t my fault!

“Zingiber,” she said shakily, turning back to her bed.

The cat leaped onto the bed, landing in a puff of duvet. I was just walking there. It’s the house’s fault for putting it so close to the edge. Pet me .

Mechanically, she began to stroke the cat, her heartrate slowly returning to normal. “Zingiber, did you ever see a small packet of herbs in my pillow?”

The cat perked up. Is there more?

She groaned. Catnip. Dagomir’s Sleep Mixture contained catnip. “That wasn’t for you. Where did you put it?”

Opened like mouse guts , he said, supremely unconcerned.

She sighed. If he’d torn it open and spread its contents all over the floor, the house would have cleaned it up.

What are you doing? Zingiber demanded, outraged as she put him off her lap and got to her feet.

“Getting up.” Much though she might wish to indulge in foolish fantasies, now that she was awake, she couldn’t. Which meant no more sleeping until she could gather more ingredients tomorrow.