Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,28
for destruction.
“Men are easy to break, Godwin.”
He doesn’t utter a single word, but I’m close . . . Close enough to drag one finger down his hard-as-steel frame. “Should I tell you all the ways I can cut a man down at the knees?” I ask softly, tilting my head.
In the ensuing silence, I imagine what my eyes don’t reveal—his gaze greedy on mine and his Adam’s apple bobbing with nervous anticipation. I paint an unmistakable flush on soft cheekbones and crowded teeth appearing behind a thin-lipped smirk while he debates his next move.
I picture him, for better or worse, like all the targets that I’ve ever hunted for the sake of politics and the future of England and Father’s unrelenting ambition. It’s easier than acknowledging the truth—and the truth is that Godwin could ruin me. Permanently.
But only if I let him.
“I think I will,” I say, answering my own question. I drift sightless eyes over the massive body poised just centimeters away, awareness zipping down my spine. “It always starts the same, you know. A shared glance from across the room. A small smile that hints at more to come. A game that I’ve already won before I’ve even given my name.”
Pressing a hand to his chest, I feel the coiled muscles jump to life beneath my palm. No matter the fact that he stands as still as stone, unmistakable heat and power radiate from beneath the confines of his thin cotton shirt. He’s a predator. Death encased within flesh and bone. Each pulse of muscle a visceral reminder that unlike the wiry-framed politicians of my past, Godwin is the devil molded into the body of a god.
A god who remains perfectly inscrutable while my fingers chart the undiscovered territory of his broad chest.
Feeling unsteady, I force a light, airy chuckle past my lips. He’s just like all the others. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, over and over again. A man, not a god—and certainly not the devil. Godwin is no different than the men whose secrets I stole right before I slipped from their beds.
Liar.
In all those years, and in all the years since, I’ve never felt the lick of nerves chasing my heels like I do now.
Each graze of my palm reveals a storied tale of strength and dominance. Every sweep of my fingers tells me all I need to know: if Godwin ever did possess softness, it was destroyed long ago.
This is not a man who will melt for me.
But I’m in too deep to turn tail and run, and so I continue doggedly, “It’s a brush of fingers when no one is looking and a whisper in his ear when he wavers to do the right thing. But the wrong thing . . . the devil on his shoulder, the angel dead on the floor, defeated, that’s where the true wreckage happens.”
Determined to shatter his resolve, I curl my fingers around his muscled forearm and tug him down, down, down. He complies—just like a man—and I press my lips to his skin. Unlike the marbled gods housed at the British Museum, though, Godwin’s jaw is dusted with stubble. Masculine. Untamed. My grip on him tightens, a knee jerk reaction that I can’t hide, even as I drag my mouth over his cheek to find the shell of his ear.
I linger.
I bide my time.
And then I graze my teeth over his lobe, and breathe, “Every hero has a weakness . . . even you.”
I should have known better than to taunt the beast.
In the span of a second, my wrists are clamped behind my back and my feet stumble backward and then I’m turned around so abruptly that my cheek kisses chilled glass in the same moment that Godwin’s massive body traps me against the window.
A harsh breath shudders over my lips.
His hold on my wrists goes ironclad tight. “Your tricks might work on every bloody member of Parliament,” he growls in my ear, “but they won’t on me.”
I don’t stop to think twice.
I shove my arse backward, right into his groin, and feel him. Long and thick and straining against his trousers. My heart pounds recklessly in my chest, its twin echo shattering all train of thought. Ears ringing, I flash him a triumphant look.
“Your cock would argue otherwise.”
The sound that escapes him is nothing short of a snarl. It’s vicious and angry, and bloody hell, my breath catches when I feel his free hand clamp down on my hip.