Page 167 of Whisper of Nightmares

“Who, me?” he asks with feigned innocence.

“Only a beast would shove a lady over a cliff.” She places a hand on his chest and playfully shoves him to the ground.

He laughs where he lands.

Hoping to make him writhe where he lies, Euphemia stands from the settee and marches out the room. Hearing his footsteps scrambling after her brings a haughty smile to her face.

She barely makes it out of the sitting room before he catches up to her.

Dagfinn strikes his arm out, blocking her path. His fierce eyes pin her back against the wall and all the breath in Euphemia’s lungs vacates.

The strange, stupid ache in her chest slips lower, pooling like liquid fire in her belly.

She’s not sure if Dagfinn inches closer, or if it’s the weakness in her knees that is causing her to sway into the space between them. But before she knows it, Dagfinn is so close that there is barely an inch separating them.

She can feel the heat coming off him. Can smell fire and cedar and something unmistakably Dagfinn beneath it all. Her pulse beats wildly in her throat.

His gaze drops to her mouth. “Tell me, beautiful wife, what I can do to make up for my beastly behaviors.”

The headiness of his voice causes something deep inside her to awaken and twist with desire.

She can think of a dozen things she wants him to do. The thought of his mouth against her skin. His hands roaming places she has only ever imagined. The parts of him she has never seen, but has spent far too much time wondering about.

Dagfinn watches her, a challenge set in his mischievous eyes, but something else too. Something akin to hunger. Like he wants to do all of those things too.

Euphemia can resist no longer. Her body seems to make the decisions before her mind can catch up.

She throws her arms around his neck.

Before she’s able to close the loop, he’s grabbing her by the rear, hoisting her high.

The sudden and intimate movement elicits a thrilling squeal from her lips just before they crash upon his.

His mouth is warm. Real.

His breath catches against her lips. He is solid, his heartbeat hammering beneath her palm. The sheer reality of him sends a shiver all the way through her.

Kissing Dagfinn is like drinking honeyed water after a week of thirst. He is sweet. Intoxicating. And she cannot get enough.

Their teeth knock together, neither of them willing to slow down enough to be graceful. They laugh against each other’s mouths before the kiss deepens, and Euphemia drinks.

The taste of him is a luscious wine, heady and all-consuming.

It makes her head spin.

Before she knows it, the air is moving through her hair as Dagfinn pulls Euphemia away from the wall and starts carrying her up the stairs.

“What are you doing? Put me down.” She laughs, but holds on tighter.

“I’ll put you down once I find the proper place.”

His voice is gruff and guttural.

It draws heat to the apex between her thighs.

“And where might that be?” she manages, just as breathless as he is after carrying her up the stairs.

They reach the top of the stairs.