It was a dance that only they knew the steps to, each movement purposeful. His hands, her hands, his mouth, her mouth, their bodies, all moved with perfect precision. The backs of her ankles hit Baldair’s bed and Halle was forced upon it. Carrying such a thing on the march now seemed much more pragmatic than she had first given the younger prince credit for.
Her hands fell on Feron’s hips, her thumbs finding their way under the hem of his shirt. Soft, Mother, his skin was soft. His palm ran lazily up and down her side, catching on her shirt now and then, pushing it up and exposing her own raw skin to the hot pads of his fingers.
Feron broke the kiss, breathless and flushed. Halle’s chest heaved as she stared up at him, their faces close. He said nothing, but his eyes told her the promise
