Hawthorn rushed at her, sweeping her up in his arms and flinging them both down to the bed. Juliana let out a laugh, breathless and giddy.
“This is your bed now too, wife,” he said, “although I fully understand if you want to keep a room of your own for whatever purposes. We may have to lay out some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” she arched a brow. “Like what?”
He trailed a hand down her neck, ending at the pendant still resting against her chest. “I should like to say,wherever you go, I will goest,but I think we both know the impracticalities of that. Perhaps, instead, we could just agree to let the other one know before we race off somewhere?”
“I can manage that.” She hesitated, thinking of other things they needed to agree on. “I should tell you that I’m not a big fan of sharing,” she admitted. “I know you frequently invited multiple people into your bed before—but that isn’t for me.” She had no idea what she’d say or do if he wanted to continue with his escapades.
Hawthorn smiled. “To be honest, I don’t enjoy it that much either.”
“You don’t? Then why—”
“Safety in numbers, partly. If I pick multiple strangers, there’s less chance one will be able to run me through. And because…”
“What?”
“I couldn’t be with who I wanted to be with,” he confessed. “I thought if I gorged on others, I’d feel less famished for you. For the record, it did not work.”
”Is that why you’d crawl into my bed afterwards?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Begging for a crumb of you if I was denied a feast…”
“Gods, you’re a fool,” she said, shaking her head. “And I more so for not realising anything.”
She claimed his mouth with hers, exchanging rules between kisses, vows of honesty and faithfulness and promises never to steal all the covers and give each other space and try to talk to one another in ways they hadn’t been particularly good at in the past.
“No knives in the bed.” Hawthorn suggested.
“No knives in the—”
“Juliana, my vicious love, you are quite dangerous on your own. I don’t want to risk any bedroom accidents…” He ran a finger down her arm. “Unless, of course, we’re both into that.”
“Into what, exactly?”
“I… I quite enjoy it, sometimes, when you handle your knives,” he confessed.
“You… enjoy it?”
“I have peculiar tastes, as it turns out. I don’t actually want to be hurt, but I find the threat of it rather… stimulating.”
“Stimulating?” Juliana’s grin was wicked. Her hands clasped the dagger at her hip, and she flipped him over in a singular action, drawing the weapon out as she twisted. She raised the tip to Hawthorn’s chin. His throat bobbed, eyes black and gleaming. He loosed a long, careful breath.
“Like this?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, voice rough, “just like that.”
She moved the blade down his neck, as gently as if he were butter, slipping the knife under the metal clasps of his doublet and slowly, achingly, pinging each one free until the garment was splayed against the mattress.
“I won’t rip your shirt,” she promised, and went to place the dagger down.
Hawthorn grabbed her wrists. “No,” he growled. “Fuck the shirt, and fuck me.”
Juliana bit her lip, grinning, and brought the dagger back to the fabric. She started at the neck, gliding downwards in a swift, easy line, until the perfect, sculptured panes of stomach were exposed beneath.
She was unaccustomed to this ravenous kind of hunger. Sex had been fun before, a pleasure, a niggling craving rather than a frantic need. Now, she wanted him inside her, wanted to claim his flesh with hers, to devour him and be devoured. She went slick at the thought.
Hawthorn’s hands sprung to her waist, no longer slow but desperate, claiming. Juliana flung the dagger to the floor, wrenching herself free of the bindings, all thumbs and fingers as they worked together to discard every scrap of clothing between them. Palms slid over torsos, arms, thighs. Fingers touched and teased and caressed. She couldn’t decide where she wanted him more, what part of him to grab.
