Tilde stared at me, that same insolent expression painted all over her face. She wasn't the type to throw herself at someone, not overtly—but the way she was looking at me now left no doubt what she wanted. It wasn't subtle. It was an invitation carved into the set of her jaw, the half-smirk, as well as the heat in her eyes.
She was basically asking me if I wanted to make her mine. And truth be told, I did. There was something about the idea—about the novelty of a rabbit woman at my side—that set a low, dangerous itch behind my ribs. My gaze betrayed me as it drifted to her legs, thick and firm, the kind that promised power in every step. Then it slid up to her chest, where her breasts strained at the fabric like ripe fruit barely contained. The sight twisted something hot and eager in me.
