“I’ll leave you now,” Kassandra says, snapping my attention back to the present.
Before I think of a response, she steps out of the tent, leaving me with Gabriel.
Again.
I lift my eyes, taking in the warrior sitting in that chair as if it’s a throne. He keeps his shoulders straight, his chin lifted, and his arms folded across his body.
“Kyanite,” Gabriel says, his tone commanding. “Come here.”
This man is far too bossy.
Shall I fetch a rope for him? Then, he could just lasso me and pull me to wherever he wants.
I curse beneath my breath and walk to where he sits. He reaches for the jar and dips his hand into the oil. I let out a quick breath when he grabs my arm and pulls me close enough for my thighs to dig into his knees.
“We don’t have to prolong this part or spend unnecessary time on it,” he says evenly. “They will notice if you don’t smell like this oil, though.”
They?
As if understanding my thoughts, he adds, “The council.”
“Oh.”
The word barely leaves my lips before he runs the oil along my arm, raising goosebumps against my skin. I flinch as he grabs my other hand, turns me slightly, and spreads it on my side.
It’s not terrible. It should be terrible, his touch. The feel of his fingertips gliding along my body.
He stands and rotates me until my back is to him. My breath hitches as I catch sight of our silhouettes on the wall of the tent. He’s large. I’m small. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders.
Why didn’t I notice how tall and broad he is before? I mean, I noticed. It’s hard not to note. But here, all alone with him, Ireallynotice. He possesses strength and raw power—the kind obtained from summers of wielding a blade.
He repeats his actions, dipping his hand into the mixture and rubbing it slowly along my shoulders, my spine. I bite the inside of my lip and focus on the torch in the nearby sconce. It throws amber shadows over the walls, creating a distraction for a breath before Gabriel moves my hair and slides his fingers along the back of my neck.
I let out a shuddering breath, and his touch stills.
Don’t mock me.
Please, don’t mock me.
“That’s enough oil,” he says, his voice distant. “Here.”
He pulls me around, grabs my hand, and pushes it into the mixture. I gasp at the sensation of the oil against my fingers. Before I have time to think, to breathe, he places my palm against his chest. My mouth turns dry, and I try to compel my hand to move. It remains frozen against him.
“Shall I do it myself?” he asks, snapping me from the spell he put on me the moment I touched him.
“I can do it.” Still, my hand doesn’t move. I try to not stare at him. It’s impossible to move my gaze from his wall of strength.
“Can you?” he asks, his voice teasing my inability to focus on my task.
It should be simple. Shouldn’t it?
“Of course, I can.” I swallow again and force my hand to move over him.
Don’t think.
Please, don’t think.
The sky above. It’s impossible to not think about what I’m doing. It’s the first time I have touched a man like this. It’s too intimate. Too compelling. As if, at each stroke of my fingers against him, I’m lured into the seduction he weaves.
