Page 118 of The Mercy of Dawn
He wondered if he’d misunderstood the glint of wild excitement in her eyes that day, if his hot blood had just clouded the reality of a woman raised to fight.
But the clarity of it was painfully obvious now.
Every time she flushed or stammered or went downright fucking awkward in his presence, it wasn’t because of repulsion or disinterest.
No, that wasn’t it at all.
It was because of that same itching curiosity he tried to drown in the barracks with liquor and with warm, willing bodies in his bed. How she’d kept her own sanity? Mikael had no fucking idea. He was tempted to ask if she’d thought of—
Cyril’s hand slid over the front of his pants, over where he was already half-hard and straining against his laces, and thoughts vacated Mikael.
Well, all but one.
A ragged groan left him, and he swore against her lips.
“Bed?” she breathed with a hint of what seemed like uncertainty, like she didn’t understand just how badly he ached under her touch.
Bed, wall, floor. It didn’t matter to him.
“Lady’s choice,” he said with a smile, and Cyril’s nod was all he needed.
A startled gasp of a laugh left her as Mikael slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and hauled her up, dress and all. Her legs felt like they were crafted just to be wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, and those damn fingers in his hair.
She made quick work of the leather band that kept it all tied back and raked her nails across his scalp. Mikael was sure he’d never made a more indignant noise in his life. It was worth it though, for the sultry, satisfied smirk that crept across her face as he laid her out on the bed and kneeled over top of her.
With her blush-stained cheeks and heavy, hooded eyes, Cyril looked like a lewd vision made flesh, framed by a sweeping spray of silky black. A thing of beauty, to marvel at and appreciate and drink in.
But Mikael just wanted her out of that damn dress.
He tipped her head back, baring the full span of her throat, and pressed his lips to the delicate flesh at the base of her jaw. His fingers found the front closure of her bodice—a fucking wondrous invention—and made quick work of loosening the laces holding it together.
He nestled his face into the crook of Cyril’s neck, breathing in the heady undertone of cinnamon and something sweet that rolled off her skin.
Mikael wasn’t sure something so tantalizing had ever filled his lungs, and the urge to nip and graze his teeth across her flesh was consuming. But the likelihood she’d ever been with a full-blooded moon-fae seemed slim, and Mikael had zero interest in scaring her off right out of the gate.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, if only to occupy his mouth.
Cyril tensed, fingers digging into his shoulder. Something akin to surprise had settled into her features when he glanced at her.
Just like that, she validated his suspicion that the men of the south were selfish bastards.
“I…I don’t know,” she said quietly.
“You don’t have to be shy with me.”
Mikael leveled his gaze with hers, just a sliver of sun-spun gold left clinging to the darkness she looked at him with.
There was a flicker of something uneasy there, so Mikael kissed her.
Soft and slow, but backed by restrained desperation. He wedged his thigh between hers too, and just about came fucking undone when she ground down against him and groaned.
“I promise you, I will enjoy anything you ask of me,” he said roughly as he broke away from her and dipped his head.
“If you want control”—his lips met the base of her jaw—“or praise, or pain”—again, to the hollow of her throat—“I will gladly give you those. Gods, if you just want me to put you on your knees—” A final press of his lips, between the loose ribbons draped across the snow-white expanse of her sternum. “ Or have me spend all night on mine, I will be thrilled. Just tell me what you want.”
Mikael wasn’t a hard man to please, truthfully.
There wasn’t much he disliked receiving, even less so with giving, and he fucking ached. All he wanted was to taste her or fuck her. Gods, both if she felt so inclined.
