Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
So I part my lips, letting the tip of my tongue flick against his mouth. He twitches in reaction, one hand fisting at my side before clenching me tighter against him.
“Can I keep kissing you?” I nip at his lower lip and then glance up at him, waiting for permission.
“Keep going,” he breathes, and reaches up to tap his chin in the “thank you” motion. It’s not quite a yes, but it’s charming all on its own.
I nip at his full lower lip again and then fully cover his mouth with mine. This time, when I kiss him, he kisses me back. It’s a little hesitant, but as I continue to kiss him and make soft sounds of pleasure, he grows more comfortable, less unsure. When I touch my tongue to the seam of his mouth again, he parts his lips. And when I tease him with my tongue, he pulls back in surprise.
“You licked me.”
I lean in and lick the tip of his nose playfully. “I did.”
Rem’eb’s eyes are full of heat. “Can I lick you?”
My answer is to press my mouth to his again.
He twines one hand into my hair, holding me carefully as he sweeps his tongue against mine. He makes a low sound of pleasure in his throat and deepens the kiss, tonguing me with enthusiasm that grows by the second. I’m no longer being lightly kissed…I’m being devoured.
And I don’t want it to end.
When we eventually part, both of us are panting. Rem’eb reaches between our bodies, and for a moment I think he’s going to cop a feel. Instead, he puts a hand over his heart and frowns. “Beating fast, but not resonance. I still do not understand. I know you are mine.”
I understand how he feels, strangely enough. This tension between us, this anticipation—it feels like it should be resonance. The silence of our khuis is mystifying. “Maybe it’s waiting for you to free me?”
He tilts his head, indicating that he doesn’t follow my words, and I mime walking out the door, even as I sit up on his chest. Instead of growing upset as he has before each time I mentioned leaving, he looks thoughtful. “Perhaps that is it. Your body does not like being under the mountain instead of atop it.”
“So will you free me? And R’jaal?”
A dark look crosses his face—jealousy. “I cannot free you yet. Nor your suitor.” His hands slide possessively to my thighs, holding me against him. “Will you teach me more of your words today?”
Oho, a subject change, and a not very subtle one. All right, I can play the long game. I can work on pulling him over to my side with flirting. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing (though I imagine I’m rusty after several years of hiding out at Croatoan). Romancing Rem’eb to make him fall in love with me? Piece of cake.
So I lean over him and brush my mouth against his. “Kiss.”
“Kiss,” he says eagerly, his voice heavily accented, and when he pulls me down for another make-out session, I’m all in.
It’s for my freedom, I tell myself. Nothing more.
We kiss for a while, just leisurely exploring each other with lips and tongues alone, and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn nice. Rem’eb never presses for more, content to just kiss. He acts like each one is a special gift that he’s surprised to receive, and it’s rather adorable. I should hate myself for thinking the enemy is adorable, but I remind myself that I want him on my side.
If it costs me a few (fantastic) kisses, then it’s worth it.
After a while, my stomach growls. Rem’eb reluctantly gives me a few last kisses and reminds me that I should eat. We separate, and Rem’eb moves closer to me the moment I settle near the tray. “Try this one,” he says, offering me a bite. “And this one.”
Is the man going to be feeding me by hand constantly? I have to bite back a smile of amusement. I’ve flirted with guys in the past, but none of the men on this planet acted this obsessed. Okay, maybe I’rec, but he also seemed mildly resentful of his obsession, so that tended to ruin it. This just feels nice. I let him hand me choice bits and we brush up on our tiny shared vocabulary.
With a few hand gestures, I ask about his name. Why is he called “the Fist”?
“A chief’s son is traditionally called ‘the Fist’, just as the chief is traditionally ‘the Mighty’. My father is the one who rules, and I am the fist that carries out his laws.” But he doesn’t seem thrilled at the prospect, and his expression grows vague the moment we bring up his father.
I change the subject to something else—the loom. It’s a word in his language that I remembered, and when I ask about it, he brightens, pleased at my mastery of his tongue. “I have not forgotten. Tomorrow, I promise.”