Page 86 of Promised to the Nightmare Realm
I might keep my distance in real life, but in my sleep he comes to me with hair like burnished copper and eyes the color of old gold, bright and luminous as if they hold the power of a small sun. It’s then that my mind recalls him in a series of details I’ve collected the way a magpie steals shiny things.
The way his hair flows when he moves. The exact shade of his gaze when he cocks his head and listens, or the quiet confidence in his shoulders.
I could rearrange my entire world around him. I almost did when I took his hand and followed him to the Nightmare realm, but despite the pain and horror I’ve been through, I still dream of his warm scent enveloping me like the warmest, softest of blankets. And just like that, I follow him into a courtly dance like a moth fluttering around the flame.
Is that what obsession is? A burning desire that can’t be extinguished regardless of the risk or cost?
“You’re not a bad dancer yourself,” Tristan laughs after I step on his foot.
It’s hard to focus even on following his lead when I want to press my face under his jaw and lick. I know it’s unreasonable, and because I made the topic of courting me taboo, I don’t even know where he stands by now. Have I pushed myself into the friendzone? Isn’t that what I wanted?
At least Lady is a distraction as she bounces around us with so much excitement two books fall off a shelf, and the glasses tremble on the table.
I laugh, briefly hiding my face in the fine embroidery at the front of his shirt. “Sure. If destroying your toes is the goal of this dance, I definitely am.”
“The song is called “The War of Love”, so maybe that’s how you’re waging it?”
Does he have toalsobe funny and make me feel so at ease?
“So you’re saying that you’re the one losing?” I tease.
“Depends how you define winning the war of love,” Tristan says, and at the crescendo of the violin music, he tips me back abruptly, in complete control of the move.
His breath smells of sweet cherin, and his hair slides over my cheek, and I want… I want…
Lady bumps into our legs as if she wants to join us, but she’s too big, it’s too abrupt, and we topple.
I brace myself for incoming pain, but Tristan somehow cushions the back of my head with his hand before it can hit the floor. The reality of our position hits me instantly. His leg presses against my crotch, burning my inner thighs, but he’s cradling me, careful not to put his weight on top.
He’s always so protective.
“Tristan,” I rasp, my voice soft and breathy as I spread my palms on his torso.
“I’m sorry. Lady can be so naughty.” He frowns and points his finger at her. “Bad!”
But I have eyes only for him, for the flush on his pale skin, the copper eyelashes, for the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He’s not making a move on me, at least not an obvious one, but I sense his heart beating frantically under my fingers, as if it wants to leap into my hands.
And while the desire, the yearning, have been constant companions, fear is noticeably absent, as if my knight has managed to drive it away.
He laughs, once again looking down at me, and I lean in, my lips meeting his in an electric kiss.
Chapter 29
Tristan
Igasp into the kiss, unwilling to let go even though my mind is only just catching up with what’s happening. My hands find Nate’s hips in an instant, and I squeeze, so very greedy for him.
I don’t know what’s changed his mind. Whether it was an impulsive choice or the slow erosion of his fears one promise at a time. All that matters is that he’s in my arms, his hot tongue sliding into my mouth, and I’m pulsing with so much desire my body can’t contain it.
I latch onto him, gasping when he arches into my touch, legs wrapping around my hips, fingers sinking into my flesh like hooks. He wants me closer.
He refuses to let me go.
I slide my hungry mouth over his cheek. I could eat him alive, suck on the delicate bones of his fingers and nip on his nipples as if they’re cherries.
“You did this. Just to be clear,” I mutter. “I wasn’t flirting.”
His face is right next to mine, but I see one of his eyes, his smile, the apple of his cheek. “Sorry,” he rasps, and my next kiss interrupts his half-formed laughter. There’s nothing polite about this moment.
