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He let out a low chuckle.
On impulse, I turned to frown at him, forgetting he was completely naked. My mouth was at the height of his naval, and I was greeted by the sudden sight of his bare skin just inches away.
My eyes lowered ever so slightly and widened at his hardness. He gave me a confident smirk and cocked his head, waiting to see what I would do.
Annoyed and drunk on the sight of his warm skin and the heat of the tub, I leaned forward and bit the sensitive flesh just to the right of his hip bone.
When he groaned with pleasure, something ignited in me as well.
I watched him harden before my eyes, and following that same hot, driving need, I reached out and stroked him curiously. I had only touched one other man before. It had been a brief summer fling with a young sailor when I was seventeen and he eighteen. The things we had done had been hidden and hurried. I had never really seen anything. It had felt fast, exhilarating, and maybe a little shameful. I had known we had no future.
But I didn’t feel that way now. The man before me, every last inch of him, was to be mine, my husband. And for once, I found I didn’t mind, not one bit.
I ran my hand up and down his length hesitantly, and he let me explore for a minute or so.
His pupils were dark as he wrapped his hand around mine. "Not so gentle." He tugged my hand upward again and again, showing me just how he liked to be touched.
I mimicked the motion, and he moaned, leaning back on his hands.
A wicked grin spread across my lips as I lowered my mouth and gave small kitten licks along the top of his shaft.
"Georgia," he groaned.
My name on his lips felt intimate. More than the physical act we were engaging in.
I started to reply in kind but then I paused. Forrest was not his real name. It was what everyone called him, and the fae did not give out their true names so easily. If everyone knew him as Forrest, he was not Forrest.
I froze.
Suddenly everything felt wrong. The water was too hot. The air was stuffy. My head felt fuzzy, and my pulse was erratic. I needed to get out of here.
What had I been thinking? This was no fairy tale romance. I was a stolen bride who didn’t even know her own betrothed’s name.
CHAPTER 29
The Fae King
As I said her name, she looked up in my eyes with what I believed, what I hoped, was longing. Did I dare hope for affection too?
But then I watched as the light flickered out of her eyes. She looked ready to bolt as she asked, "Isn’t it customary to tell your bride your true name?"
Just like that, romance ended as abruptly as it had begun. I groaned and slid back into the water, hiding all signs of my body’s continued response to her naked form—warm, curved, and so very nearly ready for the next step.
I wanted to give her my name, but everything between us was complicated. Yes, we were betrothed, but I had brought her here as my enemy. Her mother had cursed me. A secret she did not yet know. One among many, including the fate of her own sister.
Maybe it was beneath me, but I snapped. "Isn’t it customary for a bride to love her groom? Do you love me, little sparrow?"
She paused, an indecipherable series of emotions flickering across her face.
"It’s not fair that you can lie," I said.
"It’s not fair that you can omit," she replied.
"You’re right." I was omitting so very many things.
"Maybe-maybe we should say goodnight," she faltered.
"Maybe," I said, trailing a longing hand down her cheek.
