But she could play too. In fact, she had him in the palm of her hand as she caught his wandering eyes again.
“I’m not even wearing the shoes yet.” She nodded at the heels tossed on the floor beside her. “They complete the whole ensemble.”
Dez laughed softly, then swallowed. “I, uhm, quite like the stockings.”
She stretched onto her toes, bent at the waist, and, in a slow, deliberate, and downright diabolical dare, brushed her backside against the heat of his arousal—thick, hard, and all for her. It traversed a line they hadn’t crossed before. Sure there had been playful touches, lingering glances, insinuation of desires, but never this.
His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her hips, as if he would give in, and drop to his knees to show exactly how she quietly unmade him.
With a sweet smile, Emmery pretended not to notice, and retrieved the stick of kohl. Clumsily, she traced a line on her lash line and wished she could summon some untapped talent. Wished her hair cooperated despite her fight with that blasted pin for twenty minutes.
“Do you—” His grip on her loosened. “Do you like that?”
“The kohl?” She scrunched her nose in the mirror, feeling like someone else entirely. “Not really.”
Dez plucked it from her hand and tossed it behind him without a care where it landed. “Good. You don’t need it. In fact”—he took her by surprise and spun her, then grasped the backs of her thighs to lift her onto the counter—“you’re perfect without it.”
The cold marble nipped at her flesh as Emmery stared at him, wide eyed, and also acutely aware of his hand settling just above her knee. His other tipped her chin up to hold her there. And, oh so slowly, he teased her legs apart, shifting one then the other, before he stepped between them.
Her mind emptied and she couldn’t think.
All she could do wasfeel.
Her attention narrowed to that throbbing space between her legs and the dampness gathered there. The painful anticipation.
Dez closed that gap, nestled himself between her thighs, and leaned forward. Emmery’s eyes fell shut. She braced herself to finally feel his lips on hers and soothe this relentless ache inside her. His breath grazed her cheek, and his fingers threaded into her hair—
As he tugged the pin free and let her silver locks tumble down her back, he whispered, “But your hair may need some work.”
She bit back a groan of frustration, the need inside her screaming for release. The tender warmth of his touch seeped into her with each brush of his fingers. He twisted her hair into a series of braids she could never replicate, his stare focused on hiswork, occasionally dipping to catch her eye. Each time he fought a smile.
“Your hair is very soft,” he mused. He wound a strand around his finger and tugged playfully.
So is yours, she wanted to say, but didn’t want to reveal she touched his curls while he was unconscious. Would he let her touch them now? He had never said no before, never stopped her. How far would he let her go? To what extent was he willing to play? It seemed the rules constantly shifted and the stakes heightened.
Dez’s deft hands wove her hair into perfection, and Emmery retrieved pins from the drawer at his command. His hands felt so damn good, different from when Vesper had untangled her hair in the mountain village or when her mother had braided it over a century ago. Those had been a comfort, an act of caring, one she’d done for Maela, too. As Dez’s fingers grazed her scalp, heat and fire and ecstasy echoed through her body and sang in her blood.
“Did that school of yours teach you this, too?” Her voice fell quiet over her thundering heart.
“My mum had a bone illness. Her joints were often sore, so—” His hands stalled before he reached for the last pin. “I would braid it for her.”
She inhaled as he drew closer. The scent of cool mint from his lastveramintleaf flooded her senses, lingered on the back of her tongue, and she wanted to drown in it. Wanted to taste it. “That’s kind of you.”
Dez’s face lingered too close for her to think of anything but her recurring dream. The one where he was hers and he made her fluid, sensual—all pleasure. As he tugged a few strands of hair free to frame her face, the corner of his lip twitched.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He nodded to the mirror. “Do you like it?”
Emmery turned and surveyed the gorgeous art of her hair gathered in a sweep of braids and twists. “How did you—”
“Muscle memory,” he murmured, his tone contemplative.
When she turned back to him, she caught him studying her chest, his brows pulled together, but he wasn’t staring at her breasts. His focus was latched on the tip of the scar over her heart.
She gently lifted his chin and drew his attention back to her face, eager to pull it away from that ugly bit of her. Dez’s gaze dropped to her lips.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“My pleasure,” he whispered. A call of temptation.