The heat radiating from Fenric was different. It was a focused, slow-burning intensity that traveled from where his lips were locked onto me straight to my core.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut, my fingers tangled in his thick white hair. I could feel the sharp catch in his breath, the way his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wasn't just feeding an urge; he was drinking me in, a silent, desperate claim made in the grayest hour before the sun.
His tongue swiped against the sensitive skin around my nipple, and a low, involuntary hitch caught in my throat.
Fenric paused again. I knew he was waiting—watching for my eyes to snap open, for a reprimand, for me to push him away. But I only tightened my grip on his head, pulling him a fraction closer.
The permission was silent, but it was absolute.
