Page 36 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

His hands move behind me, fingers working through the tangled mess Felix left behind.

“Your eyes are darker,” I mumble, fixated.

“You’re drunk,” he replies quietly, still focused on my hair.

“I'm not that drunk,” I slur.

“You’re letting me sit on your bed and undo your braid. You’re a drunk little witch.”

“I just don’t want my hair to be a mess tomorrow,” I say defensively.

His hands are surprisingly gentle; they don’t tug, unlike Felix’s.

When the braid is undone, his fingers slide through my hair, massaging my scalp.

I groan as tingles ripple down my spine and the ache from the taut pull of my hair melts away.

When our eyes meet again, I swear they’ve gone nearly black.

“Your braid is out,” he says, still cradling my head with one hand. The other slides over my ribs, gliding to the back of my gown, sending my heartbeat skittering. His fingers slip beneath the laces of my bodice in one fluid motion.

“You’re still letting me touch you,” he murmurs. “You really want to keep pretending you’re not as drunk as Felix?”

The imprudence of his smirk and the challenge in his voice motivate me to argue.

“You’re sober and touching me,” I shoot back, deflecting his suggestion that I’m a drunk mess.

Even if the room’s spinning, my heart’s picking up, and his hands feel nice .

He grins devilishly as his fingers find the knot in my bodice and tugs it loose, slowly.

The fabric slacks, and suddenly I can breathe more freely.

Each lungful causes the peaks of my breasts to press against the thin cotton of my gown and the rough, rigid fabric of the loose-hanging bodice.

They tighten, stirring up heat within my chest.

He dips his head and murmurs against my jaw: “Feel better?”

One hand slides from my hair—down the back of my neck—joining the other as he works the remaining laces free.

Heat rushes over me, chasing the shiver that crawls down my spine. My breath quickens, but I can’t find the words to respond. His touch is awakening something deep inside me that I’ve tried to bury.

My bodice falls away; my breasts are suddenly reprieved from the teasing, and they are left with a low, throbbing ache. His rough hands glide over my skin, and he slips the straps down my arms so that the fabric falls to the floor. I’m left with only my loose gown.

The soft cotton clings to me, tracing every curve of my silhouette. I feel more exposed under his gaze than if I were naked. My cheeks burn as my hardened nipples poke up from beneath the fabric.

He smiles against my jaw, his breath warm and his presence overwhelming. The alcohol has already fogged my thoughts, dulled my defenses. Now, with his lips on my skin, it’s nearly impossible to think straight.

Whatever hatred I feel for him is drowned out by the wine and my remarkable talent for making terrible decisions—for surrendering control of my emotions and desires.

His hands glide back up my arms as he pulls away just enough to look at me. His gaze drags down my body and halts…directly on my chest.

“Fuck,” he growls, his gaze locked on the dark hue of my nipples.

His hands grip my biceps as he pushes me down against the mattress. He looks up at the ceiling, and I swear I hear him counting.

“I’m not a good man. I try to be, but I wasn’t born good,” he mutters, jaw tight and eyes distant. His hands curl into fists on either side of my shoulders as he leans over me.

“I work every day to overcome my nature.” Then, quieter. “And you…you test that.”

His gaze lowers to mine, thick with frustration. “You test it when you look at me with those damn eyes.”

I stare up at him, half-lidded, breath shallow. Need coils in my stomach, ravenous and growing, and my control slips.

“So damn needy,” he curses, leaning down, caging me in with his arms. His voice drops to a near growl. “Lie to me again. Tell me you’re not drunk. Tell me you came here with good intentions. Lie to me some more.”

He wants a lie? I’ll give him one.

Embolden by wine and his hunter, I swallow hard.

“Touch me,” I plead with a whisper. The words feel like my own and yet far away, belonging to another.

Just like earlier, the wine does its job at squishing down the shame I feel until I can’t hear it, can’t feel it.

I just hunger for more. And he can satiate me.

His nostrils flare with the force of his exhale. “You’re so pretty when you lie,” he murmurs. “I almost want to indulge you.”

His jaw tics. He leans in—close enough for his breath to fan over my lips—but stops short.

“You’re an infection,” he breathes. “If I slip my hand between those creamy thighs, and if I suck the breasts begging for my attention…I won’t find a cure.”

His words burn through me—fuel to the fire already blazing in my veins. In that moment, I feel devastating. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Instead of touching me, he pulls back.

“Sleep, Millicent,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re drunk, and I’m drunk on lust, apparently.”

He retreats from the bed in one swift motion, vanishing through the door without a backward glance. Only then do I realize the room is spinning.

I don’t remember when I close my eyes or fall asleep, the night blurring.