Page 188 of The Mercy of Dawn

Mikael tipped Cyril’s face up and kissed her with the sort of languidness that drew a pathetic, whimpering noise from her.

“No more excuses,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re mine tonight.”

Cyril’s spiraling thoughts screeched to a halt.

The broad span of Mikael’s hand cradled her jaw as he kissed her again, angling every bit of his warmth and hard muscle over her. She didn’t know just how badly she needed the weight of his body to ground her, to tether every fiber of her being to here, to now, to him.

A brush of his tongue against hers, and everything else just slipped away.

There was no slow, honey-like drip of heat like he so often drew from her. No, a desperate and aching need tore through Cyril like a fucking wildfire, and she sought every bit of contact she could get with Mikael’s body. A haughty, rumbling groan left him when she tangled her legs around his waist and pulled his hips to hers.

“You’re impatient, wrath.”

Mikael was all breathless amusement when he pulled away from her, and Cyril whined at the loss of everything. Of course, she was fucking impatient. It had been weeks upon weeks, upon fucking weeks of him dangling this in front of her, and she wanted—

The prince sat back on his heels and tugged off his shirt in one fluid motion.

Cyril’s mouth went dry.

Seeing Mikael shirtless wasn’t a novelty, but she had never seen him like this before. Her gaze roamed, taking in the lean expanse of his chest and shoulders that she was aching to dig her fingers into. It wasn’t the first time she’d admired the toned V of muscle sweeping in along his hips and the trail of auburn hair disappearing with it below his night pants either, but the view of it had never warmed her so thoroughly before.

The man was a fucking moonlit masterpiece.

Nothing but an unrestrained, masculine sort of pride settled into his features when her eyes bounced back to his. He knew just how much she was enjoying the view. Mikael leaned forward, his hands mapping a torturous path up her thighs and hips and under her shirt.

Roughly, he muttered, “Take this off.”

Cyril didn’t need to be told twice.

She sat up enough to tug her shirt over her head, and Mikael gave her all of a half a second to toss it before he eased her back down. And he dared to give her shit for being impatient.

His fingers were already making quick work of the ties holding her breast-band closed, and Cyril had little control over the way she arched into his touch.

“If any of this is too much…” Mikael said much more softly, his lips and breath a warm ghost on her neck. “If you want to stop, we will, even if it fucking kills me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she breathed, even though she knew there wasn’t a chance in any of the damn hells she would want to stop.

Mikael’s glacial eyes flickered up as the simple, black band of fabric fell away from her chest, and he smiled at Cyril in a way that made her heart hurt. She didn’t want to think about that right now, about happiness and feelings and things that existed outside of the way her body ached.

But his head dipped, and his lips met the swell of her breast, and that thought vanished. Every pore of her body came alive with something hot and saturating under his wandering mouth, under the testing grazes of his teeth.

Cyril didn’t know how to process the sort of intensity and reverence he worshiped her body with. She tangled one hand into his auburn waves and the other in the sheets, fighting to contain her shuddered gasps and half-broken groans. Every damn ounce of aching need and want and merciless heat she’d ever felt for Mikael pooled in her core.

Cyril felt like she was going to fucking combust, and he’d barely touched her.

The prince grazed his lips along the angles of her hip bones, his fingers hooking in her underwear, and he paused. Waiting for her to change her mind. To say no, it was a mistake. That she didn’t want this, didn’t want him.

But Cyril lifted her hips, a silent answer to a question asked in the absence of words. Mikael made quick work of the last scrap of fabric separating all of her from him.

Cyril was certain she should have felt some twinge of embarrassment, some need to preserve her modesty, being laid out in front of him like this. Every damn bit of her on display as his hands spread her legs wide, as his eyes roved her body with a sort of hunger that made it hard to breathe.

But she didn’t feel embarrassed at all.

No, she felt fucking powerful.

Mikael’s tongue grazed along the points of his canines and he shook his head, like he was in disbelief of whatever he saw laid out before him.

“Gods, look at you.” His voice sounded like roughed-up silk as his fingers skimmed up her thighs, his thumbs dragging through the crease of her hips. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Cyr. Every fucking inch of you.”