The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,41
you unprotected from an ambush.”
It’s not completely true. Anyone who tried to approach from behind would fall asleep before they could get within fifty feet of me, but as much as I hate to admit it, Astrid’s right to interrupt us. We’re already getting a late start to the day. Dawn has come and gone, and if we want to make it to Port Serras by dinner, we better get going.
A musty scent carries in the breeze, and I wrinkle my nose as I turn my head toward Astrid. “Are you bringing your rugs?”
“Just one. Can you put it on top of the carriage for me?”
I make a sound of protest, but it’s not the favor I’m opposed to. It’s separating from Whitley that I’m reluctant to do.
Trying to get myself under control, I rest my forehead against hers, but my mate is greedy. Gripping the back of my neck, she goes in for a few more closed-mouth pecks.
My heart might be in danger of bursting from happiness.
“You want me,” I rasp, a bit surprised by the gusto of her affection.
I’d already expected the bond would push us together, but Whitley’s kisses are about more than that. In such a short time, she’s come to care for me.
“Of course I do.” She swallows hard. “In the nightmare, when I saw that arrow go through your chest, I wanted to die. I can honestly say I’ve never been so devastated, but what stands out most is how I felt about you. The love… even after I woke up, it stayed with me. It’s obviously in the future, and I don’t know how my heart will get to that point, but I already know I’ll love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone before.”
When she puts her palm over my heart, I place my hand on top of hers. And just like that, I’m no longer worried about getting her alone or stealing private moments.
Because if her premonitions always come true, at least I won’t doubt her love when it’s time for me to die.
Whitley
Choosing to ride with Damon instead of going in the carriage with the rest of the girls might’ve been a mistake. A very tempting, delicious mistake.
It seemed like the logical thing to do, because if I ride in something with wheels, I’m likely to get carsick. Carriage sick, in this case.
But the physical contact with Damon is almost unbearable.
He’s behind me in the saddle, his strong body engulfing mine as he holds the reins in front of us. His muscular forearms are in my line of sight, and I never realized a non-sexual part of the body could be such a turn-on. Sinew and veins. A dusting of blond hair on tan skin. Masculine hands, with thick fingers and roughened skin.
And his body. Even through the winter cloak I’m wearing, his warmth seeps through. Along my back, he’s both hard and soft. His pecs, abs, and shoulders continuously flex as we move with the horse in a rhythmic dance.
I can imagine his body moving on top of mine like that.
What makes it worse is the saddle horn between my legs. Constantly rubbing. Making me ache with a need so fierce, I’m not sure if I can go much longer without spontaneously getting off.
Now that I have my memory back, I can say without a doubt that I’ve never been this horny in my life. I’m so clouded by lust, I’m not even able to fully appreciate the scenery.
This world is so different from mine. Even though it’s always night here, the bright stars and moons cast a silvery light over the landscape.
Rolling hills to my left. Shimmering water to the right. Mountains looming ahead.
The cold air is crisp and free of pollution. I inhale through my nose, getting hints of sweetness from the purple trees and a fresh breeze from the lake.
Coming through even stronger is Damon’s heady scent. It mimics the smells from this realm, only with a darker undernote. I want to turn around on this horse, straddle his lap, and breathe him in.
Just the thought of having my center pressed against his hardness makes me wet.
Holding in a moan, I drop my head back, resting it in the place where Damon’s neck meets his shoulder. I turn my face toward him, and my lips graze his skin in the gentlest of kisses.
A low menacing sound rumbles in his chest. “Whitley?”