“A woman in demand.” I run my fingers along the edge of my neckline. My magic pulses like a heartbeat in my lips.
He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a pale, straight scar on the side of his neck. I stand on the opposite side of the room, watching. He really is handsome. Maybe in another life, where he wasn’t an abusive asshole and I wasn’t a poisonous woman, I might take him for a tumble.
“You remind me of a silver maple tree,” he says.
I laugh. “Your flirting could use work.”
His smile grows wide as he closes the distance between us. He reaches out, and I fight not to flinch. It’s a reflex of being indiscriminately toxic. I don’t let people get close because I’m afraid they’ll forget they can’t kiss me.
He runs a lock of my hair between his fingers. “Silver maples are lovely in the fall because of their vibrant leaf color, but they have these incredible, fast-growing roots. There’s so much going on beneath the surface, and I get the impression that you are much the same. So lovely, one could easily forget that there’s so much unseen.”
“But not you,” I say, my voice softer than I expected.
His gaze drops to my mouth. My heart is thunderous in my ears as he leans closer. I’ve never been attracted to a mark. Usually, the threat of violence is enough of a turn-off.
Normally, it doesn’t take this long. I’d kiss him quick and get it over with. I wouldn’t feel the nervous flight of butterflies in my stomach—but he doesn’t just kiss me. His lips brush along my jaw, his nose skimming down my neck. The touch is so intimate, I can’t decide if I want to push into it or shrink away.
Bea is the only person who has ever been so tender with me, but with her, it was dangerous. I could never really relax into it because her safety required my vigilance.
Though my lips are always poisonous, the rest of my body is safe to kiss. But for anyone who isn’t me, kissing is natural. I’ve had enough close calls to know that partners tend to forget themselves when lost in the throes of passion.
I don’t need to be careful now, and I’m acutely aware of how much more intense everything feels when I’m not consumed by vigilance.
He nips at my neck, and I gasp.
“You even smell like Stellarium Blossoms,” he murmurs against my pulse.
One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head to the side so he can kiss my neck. I shiver as he presses his lips to the space behind my ear. None of my other marks have been so sensual. They’re usually anxious to get right to it, but he seems set on savoring every touch.
The slowness is torture. Somewhere in the back of my brain, the fear that he could strangle me right here is blaring like a warning bell, but I can hardly breathe as his lips brush back up my jaw.
His other hand grips my hip and he pulls me closer, meeting my gaze, a question in his eyes. “Can I do more? I’m afraid if I kiss you I’ll lose myself. I think maybe I want to.”
It takes me a second in my lustful haze to realize he’s asking permission. None of my targets have ever done that before.
I nod dumbly, and his lips brush mine, tentative and then harder. His enthusiasm makes me gasp, and he takes the kiss deeper.
I’ve so rarely been kissed, but never like this. Lust burns through my veins and my hands clench in his shirt as I drag him closer, his hips pressing into mine. He kisses me like his life depends on it, and it’s that thought that snaps reality into place.
He pulls back, and I meet his storm-cloud eyes, but instead of confusion and pain, I only find lust. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto the desk, sending his papers scattering over the floor. He should already be feeling the effects of the poison, but he’s just as enthusiastic as he kisses me again, harder. Yanking me to the edge of the desk, he hooks my thighs over his hips and starts to grind against me. I should be terrified, but I fist his shirt and tug him closer.
I groan, my head falling back, and he draws a blazing line of kisses down my neck.
What is wrong with me? Is my magic not working?
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the looking glass and sigh in relief. My lipstick is smeared; my lips are dark purple and tingling like they always are when I summon my magic.
I thread my hands through his hair, yank his head back, and kiss him again. His mouth is sweet with wine, mingling with the sweet tartness of poison on my lips. He pulls away, gasping.
This is it. He’s about to keel over. Only his eyes are filled with fire andhis breathlessness seems entirely a result of the kiss. Panic sends my stomach tumbling.
He runs a hand over his face. “Divine dammit, woman, what are you doing to me? I don’t normally?—”
I kiss him again before he can finish. My lips are burning, the familiar sickening sweetness of the poison on my tongue, but he’s kissing me like he can’t get enough of it.
For so long, I felt certain that kissing was just a novelty—only appealing because I couldn’t do it. It was simply my curiosity and its illusiveness. I was certain once I finally got my lips on someone for longer than a moment, I’d discover the fuss was all anticipation. But the kiss is world-rending. I never want it to end. One moment tender and soft, the next hungry and eager. My surrender is entirely involuntary. My body softens against his.
It’s possible I’ll never get another chance to kiss someone like this. My victims usually die within a minute, but he must just be stronger. So, I kiss him back with the reckless abandon of someone who has waited thirty years to be kissed like this, rolling my hips to meet his movements. My skin is too hot and tight, my heart pounding in my ears. I let myself surrender to the fantasy of a life where I can have this any time I want.
