Seriously. My imagination is epic. This mystery guy—his body is perfection. Cut. Lean. Muscle on top of muscle. My tongue flicks out, wanting to lick his skin.
I may need to thank Marielle for that extra dose of venom. Yowza.
He grips my hips and drags me to the edge of the bed; he doesn’t hesitate before angling his cock and plunging it deep inside.
“Hard,” I tell him. “Fuck me hard.”
I may be giving commands, but he’s fully in control, slamming his body into mine. I feel his size, his girth, his length. The air knocks out of my bre
ath and my brain fights to stay focused. I’m overwhelmed with how it feels. The heat. The sweat. The sticky skin between us. Each thrust a wave of heat that rolls across my flesh. Sparks a flare of desire. A flicker that threatens to ignite. A bomb waiting to explode.
Not even Marielle’s venom is this good.
The grunts from my lover grow impatient, erratic. His hands demanding, his movements rough. He lifts me, yanking me off the bed like a ragdoll, too lost in my own euphoria to even care. He pulls me in his lap, fucking, cradling, holding me in the strength of his arms. His mouth hovers close to mine.
The spark catches, spreading, spreading, spreading across my nerves. He holds me, his own climax building, building, building, until he buries his head in my shoulder, his teeth in my flesh.
My cry and his grow combined.
Dazed, sweaty, confused, blissful.
He kisses me. Gentle. Strong.
I cup his face in my hands, and for a blink, the fastest of seconds, the glamour wavers. It’s not enough for me to identify him, but gods he’s beautiful.
An instant later, the shadow is back. The wings spread with a snap, lifting him in the air, into that brilliant night sky, and he’s gone. Off, over the city.
I close my eyes and wish--no, pray--for this not to be a dream. I open them, and my heart falls. I’m back in my room.
Alone.
Two days. That’s all it takes for the atmosphere to change at the Academy. The shift is slight, but noticeable. Like the guy that passes me and Elizabeth on the way to breakfast. He’s not wearing the tie for his uniform. Or the increased volume that comes from the dining hall. Students mill around instead of sitting at the long tables. They’re clustered in groups, most animatedly talking about Marshal’s party the night before—a party that under Garland would have been a secret. That no longer seems to be the case.
Debauchery rules.
“I heard that Marielle started drinking from people and there was an orgy,” Elizabeth says as we pass through the dining hall doors. “I also heard that Marshal and Luke tore off their shirts and fought, bare knuckled.”
“That would have been a sight. Did you hear who won?”
“No.” But we see Luke across the room, sporting a faint ring of black under his eye. I’m not sure if all the rumors from the party are true, but someone punched him in the eye. Not that I blame them.
I spot Armin pouring himself a cup of coffee. He’s still in his instructor’s outfit, a long, dark gray robe. He’s a man that prefers a uniform.
“How was the party?” he asks, handing me the cup.
“Stupid.”
“I heard someone spiked the punch with truth fairy dust.”
I frown. “What’s fairy dust?”
“Depends on the fairy,” Elizabeth replies, stirring a massive scoop of sugar into her coffee. “Truth, lies, desires…I didn’t taste any. I’m calling bullshit on that.”
“Marshal was in rare form. I didn’t stay long.” I avoid the sugar but pour milk into my mug. “I did talk to Luke for a while.”
Concern flickers on Armin’s face. “How did that go?”
I shrug. “I think he’s solid. He’s still pissed at his dad. Marielle is another story, I doubt she can resist Roland’s allure.”