Page 100 of The Nymph King

The room had grown unbearably hot, though the fire remained low. Imani wiped sweat from her brow.

“This isn’t only about Essenheim anymore,” she breathed, the edge still harsh in her voice.

“It never was.”

“And that’s exactly the problem.”

Ellisar froze.

Imani could only stare at the fierce look on his face.

“Do you want me?”

Her stomach dropped at his question, but she lifted her chin as her face drifted dangerously close to his. Desire had become tangled through the argument, but Imani refused to let him confuse wanting him now with agreeing to the future he had described outside.

“Why would you ask me that?” she demanded, their noses nearly brushing. “What do you think would change?”

It was pure arrogance, a refusal to give him the answer he wanted. Ellisar cocked his head… then his hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him.

His mouth crashed into hers in a crushing kiss.

It was a blade, severing the argument and carrying the same violent intensity as their exchange. Imani didn’t pull away. She met him with equal force, her hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer as the unresolved conflict poured straight into the connection.

Their mouths crashed together, breath catching as his tongue pressed in and hers answered. Her hands slid up his chest, gripping fabric, while his hold on her waist tightened, anchoring her to him. The kiss encapsulated weeks of words unsaid, desires buried and abandoned, fears not quite conquered but now at last ignored. It was sweeter than the first taste of wine and gave her just as much of a rush.

Imani indulged this needy, shameless side of her that she worked so hard to ignore because there was always work to be done. A part of her that Ellisar ignited at the party without even trying to.

The tension shattered into frantic, urgent motion.

Imani’s fingers tore at the fastenings of his coat, pushing it down his arms until it dropped to the stone floor. His hands found the ties at her back, violently loosening the structured bodice that had held her posture so perfectly all evening. The fabric gave way under impatient hands.

She forced the buttons of his shirt free, pushing the linen from his chest, while he stripped the heavy weight of her outer layers until only the thinnest silk remained against her skin.

Their argument heightened into physical need as Imani’s hand slid into his hair, gripping hard enough to pull his head back before dragging his mouth down to hers. His response was to plant a rough kiss against her lips, one hand bracing her spine while the other locked her hips to his.

Her nails scored down his back. He sucked in a hitching breath against her mouth.

Panting, Imani stopped pulling at his clothes and simply looked at him.

She had seen Ellisar armored, dirty, formally dressed, and carrying the authority of the High Sentinel, but never this unguarded. Without the coat and structured layers that usually sharpened his silhouette, his shoulders and chest seemed heavier, his strength less ceremonial and more physical.

Pale scars crossed his skin in irregular lines, some old enough to have faded nearly silver, and she found herself tracing their paths without touching them. His short silver hair had fallen out of place beneath her hands, leaving the longer strands on top disordered across his forehead.

The severity she associated with him had loosened too. His lips were swollen from kissing her, his breathing deeper than usual, and the composed general she had spent weeks trying to understand suddenly looked intensely, unmistakably like a man who wanted her. The thought sent another rush of heat through her, but another truth swirled deeper. One she didn’t want to examine too long.

She liked looking at him, and more dangerously, she liked being allowed to see him this way.

Ellisar’s hands stopped at her waist, and his attention traveled over her without the appraisal he used in council chambers or on battlefields. The loosened silk no longer held her in the rigid shape the court expected. Her silver hair had fallen around her shoulders, her cheeks were flushed, and the careful arrangement she had worn to the celebration had been ruined by both of them.

Imani almost covered herself out of instinct, but a hard look from him stopped her. There was hunger in it, certainly, but also an open appreciation that made her feel more exposed than nakedness could have. He took in the strength of her body, the curve of her waist beneath the thin fabric, the Crown of Life still alive above the hair he had tangled, and finally her face.

His thumb brushed once along her cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Imani’s heart stuttered at the simplicity.

She lifted her chin and studied his face in return. “So are you,” she rasped, hardly able to find the words.