Azrayel kissed her until whatever remained of his judgment dissolved beneath the heat between them.
There was no room left for the council, the border, or the words he had spent days forcing between them. He could feel only Metheea beneath his hands and the silver mana winding through his own as though their cores had finally stopped fighting something they had always known.
Every breath brought more of her scent into him, and instead of becoming accustomed to it, his body seemed to burn hotter.
Metheea's hands moved over him with the same restless need. She touched his shoulders, his chest, the back of his neck, never remaining anywhere for long enough to satisfy whatever she was searching for. Each path left heat behind until Azrayel felt as though she were setting fire to him through his clothes.
Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his shirt.
Azrayel broke the kiss on a sharp breath.
Her palm found bare skin.
The contact sent something violent through him.
