Page 18 of A Court of Ravens
I don’t move.
The shadows do.
His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His grip is steady, but his eyes? Dark, wild, knowing.
I try to speak. Fail. Try again. “Niall?—”
My voice barely makes it past my lips before his mouth ghosts over my ear.
“If you want to play dirty, love…”
A slight shift in his stance. That’s all it takes. His knee nudges higher, pressing right where I need it. Not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to wreck me with the lack of it. I inhale.
“…you’d better be ready to beg.”
And the shadows?
They rush forward, licking at the edges of the light, mirroring the need twisting inside me.
Niall watches me, eyes burning. “They know what you want.”
I lick my lips, throat dry.“And what’s that?”
His fingers tighten on my hips.
“Me,” he growls, dragging his teeth over my throat. “On your lips. Tasting your skin. Until you beg me to never stop.”
ChapterSeven
NIALL O’LEARY
“What we want becomes a whisper against the roar of what we must do, and sacrifice becomes our second nature. You have to take her.”
Queen Talora Blackthorn Shadowhart Forrest
My shirt is gone. A grave fucking injustice, considering she’s still wearing that lacy contraption over her tits—the kind a man dreams of tearing apart with his teeth. If she doesn’t take it off soon, I just might.
“Your turn,” I rasp, voice rough with hunger as I turn her and run my fingertip down her throat to the edge of the lace.
Her lavender eyes glint with mischief. Dangerous. Tempting. “Where should I start?”
Gods fucking help me.
“A shirt for a shirt seems fair,” I manage, even as my gaze locks onto the lace covering her like a taunt. “But that…” I gesture to it with a flick of my fingers, my jaw tight, my restraint thinner than a thread. “…needs to go too.”
She tilts her head, amusement curling her lips. Teasing. Testing. Then, with the kind of confidence that could bring kingdoms to their knees, she reaches behind her back. With a flick of her fingers, the lace falls away.
My breath fucking stalls. The delicate scrap of lace flutters to the ground at my feet, but I don’t look down. I can’t. Not when she moves, shedding the delicate barrier between us like they mean nothing. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
She’s bare. Bared to me. Like an offering. Like a fucking dare. Every inch of her exposed skin is a fucking masterpiece—soft curves, taut muscle, smooth, fuckingmine.
And then—she steps back.
It’s slight, barely a shift, but the hesitation slams into me like a fist to the ribs. My entire body is taut, every muscle coiled, straining toward her, but she stays just out of reach.
The space between us? Unbearable. I won’t let it stay that way.
“Running from me?” My voice is a growl. A warning.
