Page 96 of The Moon's Fury

He placed his dagger into her waiting hand, a spark tingling his fingers where they grazed hers. She scooted closer, then closer still. Hesitantly, she placed one hand on his chest for stability and leaned in until their faces were scant inches apart.

She was practically sitting in his lap.

Her eyes were wide, and she swallowed deeply. The dagger quivered in her hand—clearly, she had not thought through the mechanics of her offer.

If Jamil were a better man, he’d tell her it was all right, he could do it himself.

Instead, he arched a brow in challenge, knowing this stubborn, magnificent woman would follow through.

And she did.

Soraya tilted her chin, took a deep breath, and raised the blade to his cheek, gently pressing it against his skin. He held his breath as she slowly dragged it down, making a clean swipe down to his jaw.

They both exhaled at the same time. He wiped the blade with a small cloth, and the dagger kissed his cheek again, sliding through the lather.

Could she feel how fast his heart beat beneath her palm?

His eyes were riveted to her as she painstakingly drew the dagger over his face. Her breathing was heavy, and her pupils had blown wide, until her eyes looked nearly black. Every so often, Soraya would take a deep, shuddering breath and swallow. His eyes tracked the gentle bob of her throat.

“Is this all right?” she asked with a nervous laugh, her eyes finally meeting his. “I’ve never done this before.” Her cheeks were flushed pink, and moons, he wanted to kiss her.

“You’re perfect,” he rasped instead, like an idiot. She moved even closer, and he fisted his hands in the grass to keep from pulling her into his lap.

“Your scar,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I should avoid it, right?”

He could only nod. She raised a finger to his cheek and slowly dragged it through the lather where his scar ran down his face, clearing the white foam.

His trousers felt uncomfortably tight.

She painstakingly finished his other cheek, paying extra attention around his mouth. Every accidental brush of her fingers against his lips drove him mad with desire.

With a gentle finger, she tilted his head up and began sliding the blade against his neck. He could feel her hand shaking, though it didn’t concern him in the slightest. Moons, he didn’t care if she slit his throat as long as she kept touching him.

Her fingers gripped his tunic, leaning in closer.

One swipe.

Two swipes.

Nearly done.

He regretted sharpening his dagger—a dull blade would have kept her pressed against him longer.

Soraya gasped and pulled back. “I cut you,” she breathed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

A drop of blood welled and dripped down his neck, pooling in the hollow above his collarbone. Soraya went to set the dagger down, but he grabbed her wrist. He wrapped his hand over hers on the hilt and brought their joined hands back to his throat.

He kept his eyes locked on hers as they slowly scraped down his neck together. Their hands remained intertwined on the dagger as he made clean swipes through the lather. She broke his gaze, eyes dropping to his throat, where their hands drew the dagger over his skin. Her lips parted, and his gaze fell to her thighs as she clenched them together.

Perhaps, she was just as affected as he was.

When the last of the lather was gone, he reluctantly dropped her hand. She cleared her throat, averting her eyes. “Um, if you wanted to grow a beard, I know of a plant-based oil that would soothe the itching.” She scooted back, and he immediately missed the heat of her thigh against his.

“How do you like me?”

The words left his lips before he could stop them.

He didn’t take them back.