This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(66)

He let go as she reached fifty-two.

“Well?” she asked, breathless.

“Better. The first time hurt. This was … uncomfortable, but not unpleasant.”

“Those words mean the same thing.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Of course they do. If something is uncomfortable, it’s unpleasant.”

“Not always.”

“Give me one example of an experience that’s uncomfortable and pleasant.”

“A massage. Amazing after a fight, but ouch.”

“A what?”

“A body rub for sore muscles. You’ve never had one? Oh, right. ’Course not.”

“You pay someone to rub your body?” Who was she kidding, she’d pay to rub his body.

“For a good massage I’d beg, borrow, or steal. There’s this girl who lives above the Barrel—” He shook his head with a small smile. “Scented oils, clean sheets, and her hands are magic.”

“I don’t need the details, thanks.” But the image he’d painted was already there, and her face went hot.

Dante narrowed his eyes. “What is going on in your head right now?”

She lifted her chin. “I was struck by the memory of you in that fighting ring. I was quite sad that something so pretty was about to be destroyed.”

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. “Uh. Thanks?” He pointed to her eyes, then turned his fingers to his own. “Focus. I’m trying to explain how something can hurt in a good way.”

“And I’m trying to explain why the words good and hurt don’t go together.”

“They can, though. I just need the right example.” He grasped in the air for some elusive example, until his gaze fell on a stack of novels. “Arousal!”

Her cheeks burned so hot her hair might light on fire. “I said I don’t need the details.”

He bit his lip against a laugh. “Unrelated. Bear with me. I know you’ve been locked up here for a while, but I’m guessing you’ve still thought … thoughts.” He aimed a pointed look at the books. “So. Like I said, uncomfortable but not unpleasant.”

She wiped her expression blank. She was thinking all kinds of thoughts at that very moment, but she would not react.

He snapped his fingers. “Exercise. I should have said that first.”

“You really should have.”

He laughed far longer than he deserved to. “You know what I mean, that good ache in your muscles after a hard workout. Uncomfortable, but pleasant.”

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Does it feel like any of those things?”

“Well, no.” He frowned. Of course it didn’t. It felt like pain, and she’d never wanted to know more specifics than that, but she had to understand if she wanted any hope of taming it. “It’s more like a … buzzing. Or a vibration. It only hurts when it’s too … fast? Intense? It knocked the wind out of me at first, but it got less noticeable each time—more like a purr.”

“What is it with you and cats?”

He grinned. “Guess you remind me of one.”

“Because I’m so sweet and lovable?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Mysterious and graceful?”

“Definitely not. It’s probably because you never sit correctly, and you get visibly annoyed when anyone reads a book in your presence.”

She humphed, uncurling her legs so her feet dangled, toes barely touching the floor. “Most chairs are too tall for me. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Excuses, excuses. Anyway, when you touch me, think like a cat.”

There was no excuse for the vivid mental image of herself in dramatic eyeliner, slinking toward him, hips swaying in a feline prowl, that popped into her head, but there it was.

Dante absently tapped his knee. “It’s like stretching. If you yank someone’s arm back, you could dislocate it. You have to ease in, stopping at the point of good pain. Speed and force make a difference. Like, touching foreheads is fine, but do it fast enough and it’ll get you thrown out of a fight. See what I mean?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been head-butting people?”

“In a way. Don’t think about power, just focus on touching. You aren’t hurt right now, so you don’t need anything from me.”

Had a sentence ever been so untrue?

She took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll stop if it’s too much.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He slid his hands across the table.

“You aren’t allowed to.”

Two of her Fontes had made it past two touches, but no one had endured more than four.

Alessa closed her eyes, gathered herself. No taking, no using, no stealing. Just touching.



* * *



Alessa leaned over the back of the couch, her cheek a handspan from Dante’s parted lips, and held her breath until a reassuring gust of air warmed her skin.

Skin to soul, she was wrung out like a wet rag. They’d spent hours practicing, and she needed rest, but every time she got into bed, she panicked and ran back to make sure he was only sleeping.

The whole time, she’d been so scared the next touch would be the one that proved too much. But while her anxiety mounted, Dante had only grown calmer as the hours slipped by and the touches stretched longer.