Wicked Like a Wildfire (Hibiscus Daughter #1)(47)

“What is it like,” he said, low and rough, “to be made so perfect as you are?”

“I’m not perfect,” I stammered, ducking my head. “My sister is the perfect one. Curves from here to everywhere. In all the right places.”

He stroked three fingers down my throat, tracing out its hollow. “And where exactly do you think yours are? Not in any wrong places I can see.” He tipped his head toward the water. “Lead the way. If you’re game to go, that is.”

Everything inside me roused at once. “Of course I’m game.” I dropped his hand and broke into a run to the edge of the concrete pier, calling, “Don’t forget to take the biggest breath!” over my shoulder.

Then warm air parted around me as I jumped, a wobbly, delicious plummet in my stomach as I dropped toward the water and broke its surface with pointed toes. I nearly exhaled the long breath I’d taken as the silken warmth rushed around me, sealing over my skin. A fizz of bubbles like popped champagne tickled against my face; Fjolar had landed almost exactly beside me, both of us kicking to stay underwater.

The salt stung like fury when I opened my eyes and water surged into them, but I could stand it and I could see, enough to make out the bright wavering coin of the moon’s reflection on the surface, and the rippling silver facets where its light broke on the waves all around it. Fjolar took my hand and squeezed it hard, my bones grinding together until I nearly gasped. And just like in the café the gleam went roaring through me. The facets multiplied over each other, and so did the central orb of the moon, spiraling into concentric rings around itself. I pulled at the gleam until I’d made the underside of the water into some strange, brilliant night sky, the glittering overlay of the moonlight like perfect constellations—as if someone had graphed out all the stars and forced them into order.

My lungs burned and my head went light from lack of air, but I didn’t stop pulling until the constellations came alive, blooming into silver fireworks that arced down toward us. I had never wondered how far I could take the gleam, what would happen if the fractal bloom actually touched me, but I wondered now as it came surging down.

I ran out of air before I could find out. Two kicks launched me back above the surface, gasping and laughing through salty water as I rubbed at my stinging eyes.

“What a glory,” Fjolar was saying breathlessly, laughing low in his throat. “What a work of wonder you are.”

“Thank you,” I replied, running a hand over my head to slick the hair back, licking the salt off my lips. “I—just, thank you.”

We stopped laughing at the same moment, rising and dipping as we faced each other, kicking to stay afloat with little fin-flicks of my feet. There was nothing but silence, the quiet splishing of the water right around us. His hair had slicked back too, and he was shining with sluicing water, his cheekbones curved and thick as ribs, his lips and lashes glistening as he watched me. My insides went tight with hunger.

I swam toward him in one quick burst, pushing his back against the pier. He gasped a little, and I wondered if the barnacles that clung to the concrete had cut him. I didn’t care. His nearness and that bright jolt of uncut tobacco, the quality of the night, had made me bold.

I cupped his face in my hands, feeling reckless and wild in the way I’d always pretended to be but never fully felt. I swept my thumbs over his cheekbones as his hands ringed my waist.

“Iris . . . ,” he said, an exhale of my name.

“Quiet,” I said, then kissed him. His lips parted beneath mine and the kiss went deep, tongue against tongue all silky wet. Beneath the lacing of smoke, he tasted fresh and sweet, and I kissed him like I was parched, like drinking a glass of cold water down in long and greedy gulps.

He groaned low into my mouth, and my hips writhed against his in response. He drew me closer and turned us around twice, until we were on the pier’s other side, him sitting on the steps and me straddling his lap. I pulled back just enough to look into his face, still breathing into his mouth.

“Is this what you were thinking about, this morning?” I barely recognized my own voice, so low and rough. “Is this what you wanted? Malina heard you wanting me. So you can’t lie.”

“Why would I ever lie about that?” he said. “Of course it’s what I wanted. Just like I want you now, any way you like.”

A thrill pierced through me, like a red-hot needle pulling fiery thread. All that permission. All of it mine. I wound my fingers through his hair and pulled, licking the salty water from where his neck met the thick muscle of his shoulder, sucking on his skin until he hissed between his teeth. I even used my own teeth, biting down until I felt him tense beneath me, hoping that I’d leave a mark. He let me kiss him wherever I wanted, my hands tight in his hair in a way I knew must hurt. But his own touch stayed infuriatingly light.

There’d been two boys before this, tourists who’d come through the café and stayed for a week or two. One of them I’d slept with when I turned sixteen, but nothing with either of them had come even close to this driving need. I wanted him so badly I was afraid of how fast my heart was beating.

“Why won’t you touch me harder?” I demanded, nearly panting against him.

“You’re the one on top from where I’m looking, flower,” he said, brushing his thumb over my collarbone. “If that’s what you want, then tell me so. Though it seems like you could use a little softness.”