Perhaps he would push his advantage, after all. “Answer a single question for me, sweetling, and we’ll reserve this line of conversation for another day.”
A stiff nod. “Very well. Ask.”
“Are you wet?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
COOKIE WAS STRIPPED to the studs while still fully clothed. Kaysar had destroyed her with his heart-wrenching confessions and earnest promises. He craved her bad. The guy claimed to want forever with her, and he might even possess the stones to actually stick around.
The problem, for Cookie, was his priorities. She’d been second, third and fourth choice all her life. Every forgotten birthday, broken promise and missed dinner had gutted her. To willingly sign on for a pre-ranked relationship—when you started off as the loser—was utter stupidity. The fact that she scored below his ideal of vengeance rankled.
They hadn’t known each other long, but their chemistry was off the charts. Their connection more so. Maybe, over time, his priorities would shift. But maybe not. Yeah, probably not. There was no one more stubborn than Kaysar.
And yet, despite every reason to bail, she remained seated, stewing. The problem had an obvious answer. Win him away from his vengeance. A battle of desires. Claim Kaysar’s heart in victory, and she would become first place.
Before their negotiation began, she’d considered him a candidate for a temporary fling. Now? Some of her barriers were reduced to a pile of rubble, and she saw the truth. He was a coveted war prize. One kiss, and he’d become her drug and her dealer. She craved another hit of the good stuff—connection.
Falling asleep in his arms every night. Waking beside him every morning. Conferring over battle plans. Dispensing their brand of justice throughout the land. Redecorating this castle and making a real home together. Their home. Yes!
Could she win the Unhinged One, though? Did she want to try?
Their courtship, for lack of a better word, wouldn’t be easy. Two hardheaded royals, each with a point to prove? Are you kidding me? Fights were a guarantee. Knock-down-and-drag-outs that were sexually charged to the max.
And yes, she thought of herself as a fae royal now. No, it wasn’t a big deal.
“I asked you a question, Chantel.” Kaysar reclined in a pose of total relaxation. Those whiskey irises told a different story. An epic fantasy of war and seduction. He was a warlord soon to demolish any obstacle in his path.
The barest whimper escaped. She shifted in her seat. Reeling...steadying. As she locked gazes with him, she centered. He was right. There was no reason to agonize over this decision today. He wasn’t asking for a commitment right this second, only a chance to do those filthy things to her body.
Why hadn’t she said yes already?
Cookie flowed to her feet and strolled to his side, admitting, “You did ask me a question, Kaysar, and I desire to show you my answer.”
His pupils consumed his irises, his aggression spiking. “Yes. You will show me. I will see.” With a violent sweep of his arm, he sent dishes clattering to the floor, food spilling here and there. Liquids gurgled. “I will see your answer now.”
His urgency was kerosene to Cookie, her aches catching flame. Her tremors worsened as she gathered the hem of her skirt and eased upon the table’s edge, then swung a leg over Kaysar, placing her feet on the arms of his chair. Lace trim stretched over her thighs.
With slow precision, he stroked his claws over his mouth and slid his gaze from her chest to her toes. On the way back, he lingered on the shadowed spot between her knees.
“Show me.” A raw entreaty.
Emboldened, Cookie widened her thighs bit by bit, forcing the skirt to lift, more and more light chasing the darkness away. Cool air kissed her feverish need. She groaned as Kaysar moaned.
The most delicate vines budded, growing over her hands as she traced the pierced edge of his pointed ears. “Am I wet, Kaysar?”
Appearing stunned, he shackled her ankles with a vise-grip and stared at her. “You are soaked. Pink and pretty. Beautiful.” His throaty tone thickened. “You are perfect. And I am undone.”
He moved his gaze to hers. Never had she seen such ferocious determination. Eyes glittering, he released her...and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his forearms. Muscles bunched with each movement. Ligaments pulled.
“Soon, Chantel, you will be undone, as well.”
The carnal promise battered her remaining defenses. She panted for the massive erection pressed against his leathers, the scent of her poisonvine perfuming the air. He traced the cold tip of a claw against the underside of her knee, dragging it back and forth, back and forth. Not once did he cut her. His masterful control rendered her mindless.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, sweetling?” He purred the words.
“I do, darling.” She curled an emerald vine around one side of him, urging him to his feet. She used the same vine to glide upright. “Anything you want.”
He heaved his next breath.
He was bent over, hovering above her with his body cradled between her legs. The width of his hips kept her legs spread for him. His eyes were hungry, smoldering, their lips separated by a sliver of air. Lust torched her every thought.
“I will,” he swore, white-knuckling the table edge. Longing ravaged his features. “I will do anything I want, and you will scream your satisfaction.”
Yes. “Over and over and over and—”
He slammed his mouth into hers. Cookie eagerly met the thrust of his tongue with a thrust of her own. His ferocity worked her into a frenzy, a series of mewls spilling from her. She kissed and licked and bit him with abandon, exactly as he kissed and licked and bit her.
As her vines withered, she wound her arms around him, needing him closer. He palmed one of her breasts. Squeezed it and pinched her nipple through the dress. Exquisite pleasure constricted her lungs.
“Getting wetter by the second,” she panted into his mouth.
He kissed her harder, reaching up to cup her nape.
Fevered and desperate, she whipped her hips, attempting to grind herself on his length. Yes! There. The friction she sought. She whipped her hips again and—Noooo! He’d drawn back.
“Kaysar—”
He yanked her closer, forcing her legs to spread wider as his shaft pressed flush against her core. Leather against flesh, and she gasped for more, tempted to beg for it. He didn’t grind against her, and she really, really needed him to grind against her.
“Do you hunger for me, Chantel?” he demanded, slowly reclaiming his grip on her nape, winding the claw-tipped hand through a thick lock. He angled her head further and further back, until she teetered, forced to rely on him for balance. “Say it. Say, ‘I hunger for you, Kaysar.’”