Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(65)

I fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, and he took over, shrugging his way out of it. He was much more adept at undoing my buttons, not even needing to look at them as he trailed feather-light kisses along my neck. When he finished with my buttons, he spread the shirt open, his expression eager and expectant. What he found made him pause. “Really?” he asked.

The shirt’s thin material showed a little more of me than I liked in certain lighting, so tonight I’d taken the time to put on a jump, a flexible quilted corset with no boning but plenty of laces.

Despite my ragged breathing, I managed to ask, “Would it help if I just gave you my knife?”

He shot me a dry look at that and then started in on the laces with his clever fingers, working his way down as easily as he had with the buttons. Each time he freed a cluster of laces, he’d push the jump open a little more and then continue unwrapping me. I trembled at the newness of it all, of baring myself like this. But that anxiety was fleeting, quashed by an overwhelming eagerness to seize what would happen next.

He’d almost reached the jump’s bottom edge, near the waist of my pants, and I ran my hands over his arms, tracing the shape of his muscles. My fingers grazed a spot just below his shoulder where the skin felt rough and uneven. The patch was round, about the size of my fist, and when I lifted my head for a better look, I saw that it was scar, deeper and clearly more traumatic than the little ones I’d already noticed scattered over him.

“What is this?” I murmured, as he pulled out the last lace and tossed the jump across the room.

“Nothing.” His eyes raked me over. “An old burn.”

He brought his lips to a spot just above the center of my breastbone. I exhaled and started to close my eyes . . . but I couldn’t shake that scar from my mind. A wave of emotion, oddly compassionate in such a heated moment, swept me. That wound—that burn—had been no trifle. What a thing to endure, I thought. It hit me in a way I didn’t expect, and for a few heartbeats, my world centered on him rather than what I was doing with him.

I slid my hand to his face and lifted it, cupping his cheek as I looked up into his eyes. “It must have hurt so much,” I said softly. “But you pretended it didn’t. I know you.”

He stopped and stared, looking so consumed by the moment—by me—that I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard me. Then, he blinked a few times, like he was trying to wake from a dream, and I could see that razor-sharp mind forcing its way back though the haze of desire. He studied my face with a startling intensity that first seemed incredulous, then confused. A parade of other emotions soon followed: frustration, anger, and—incredibly—fear. They disappeared in a flash, his expression finally settling on coldness. He jerked away and sat back on his heels. For a few stunned moments, the only sound in the room was our labored breathing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I reached toward him again, and he jumped to his feet.

“This is. It’s done. You need to go.”

I propped myself up on one elbow, too baffled to feel self-conscious about being sprawled half naked on his floor. “I . . . what? Why?”

“Because it’s late.” Grant snatched up his shirt and stalked to the other side of the room.

The heat of passion still burned in me, but it was starting to flicker as something icy and terrible seeped into me. I stood as well. “Grant, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s late,” he repeated, in a harsh tone I knew well. He was closed off again. Back in control. Invulnerable—or at least acting like he was. I watched in bewilderment as he pulled the shirt on and smoothed back his hair, still facing away from me.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I insisted.

“This was a terrible— Argh.” He’d started to turn, saw me, and looked away. “Can you put your shirt back on?”

I stayed as I was. “Are you actually throwing me out?”

“I’m doing you a favor. And I’ll walk you home. Are you covered yet?”

“No.” Anger began crowding out the remaining embers of desire. “You threw everything over there.”

He stalked over to where my shirt and the jump had ended up. Still averting his eyes, he tossed them back in my direction. The laces sat in a tangled pile at my feet. There was no way the jump would be reassembled anytime soon, and I shoved it into one of the cloak’s large pockets. I put just the shirt back on and buttoned it with shaking hands.

“Tell me what’s going on! Did asking about the scar bother you that much?”

“Are you decent yet?”

I glanced in the mirror. Hairpins snarled my hair, creating a tangled mess that I struggled to get the wig over. I looked like . . . like a girl who’d just let a man have his way with her on the floor. Except he hadn’t.

“Decent enough, considering what just happened.”

He dared a tentative glance over his shoulder and turned around fully when he saw me dressed. “Hopefully it was enough to get whatever you needed out of your system. If not, I’m sure there are plenty of other men who’d help you.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’d just fall into bed with anyone?” I demanded.

“No. But you made it pretty clear what you wanted. And it’s not that hard to find.”

“Well, I wanted it with you!” He winced, though the rest of his expression remained unchanged. “For a moment there, you almost seemed like a—I don’t know. Like a normal person. With feelings. Who connects to other people. But it doesn’t matter. I’m the fool here. I can’t judge you for your character when I just brazenly offered myself up.”