Page 126 of The Bound Blood
When my legs hit the side of the bed, he finally pulls back. His gaze flicks between my eyes, searching, steady, silently checking in.
I lift my chin in response, daring him to tell me we should stop again.
A low chuckle slips from his lips, soft and surprised, and my stomach flips hard at the sound. I love that sound. I love thatIget that sound.
I reach up and push his jacket from his shoulders. He doesn’t resist. The fabric slides free and drops to the floor, and his wings shift slightly with the movement—an instinctive reaction he doesn’t quite manage to hide.
Curious, emboldened, I let my fingers trace the edges first. Just the outline.
He inhales sharply.
My touch makes him shudder, a quiet sound breaking from him before he can stop it. The reaction sends heat straight through me, confidence blooming fast and dangerous.
I run my palm fully over the surface.
His wings are soft beneath my hand—not fragile or delicate. Strong. Smooth. The texture is nothing like skin, closer to silkworn thin with age, with an undercurrent of pure magic that hums back at me when I touch him.
“Lindsay,” he breathes.
I glance up at him, heart racing, pulse loud in my ears. “Is this okay?”
He swallows.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Don’t stop.”
I watch, transfixed as his eyes drop shut and emotions run over his face. It makes me bolder. I follow the line of his wing all the way up, slow and deliberate, until my fingers slide into his hair. When I ease my hand higher, curling carefully around the base of his horns, his entire body reacts.
His breath stutters. His shoulders tense, then ease, like he’s fighting the instinct to lean into my touch and losing anyway. A low sound slips from him before he can stop it, rough and involuntary.
That’s when his hands close on me. And a jolt of excitement settles in my belly.
One at my waist, holding me. The other slides up my arm, guiding my hand over his horns. Encouraging me to stroke them. He opens his eyes, gaze dark, focused, burning with intent.
I’m pretty sure with how his body is reacting that his horns are sensitive. He pulls me flush against him, and all I can feel is his hard length pressing into my soft stomach through our clothes. Holy shit, he’s big.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” he says quietly, voice tight with restraint, “and pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
His shadows curl around us, tugging at my clothes, as if they are helping him undress me. Each slide of them against my skin as they lift and pull sends a shiver down my spine. He releases my wrist and helps them pull my shirt over my head, then hegazes down at me, his eyes so dark I can barely remember them being blue.
“This is a mistake,” he says.
But he doesn’t step away.
If anything, he closes the distance, kissing me harder, deeper, like he’s trying to erase the thought the moment it leaves his mouth. His breath breaks against mine, uneven, raw.
“Is it?” I whisper.
He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to mine before his mouth finds mine again—heated, deliberate, no hesitation left in it. The shadows draw tighter around us, sealing the room away, holding everything steady while he gives in.
“But I’m not stopping,” he murmurs against my lips. “Not tonight.”
His thumb brushes my jaw, gentle despite everything else, and something in his expression softens just enough to make my chest ache.
“I need you,” he adds quietly. “Just like this. My Sunshine, even in the dark.”
FORTY-FOUR
LINDSAY
