A fiery knot tightens in my chest and I take a step back. “‘Control’? Over what? My life? Reality check, Mr. Oblivious: I’m not your ‘kid sister’ anymore. I’m done being shelved with all your other responsibilities—somewhere between clipping toenails and changing dirty socks.” I shove him aside and start toward the glass chair, determined to wait there for Morpheus.
Without warning, Jeb snags one of the rings in my belt and spins me around. In one smooth motion, he lifts me onto the narrow, crescent-shaped table. My skin trembles beneath his touch as he scoots me all the way against the wall, his hips wedged between my thighs. We’re level—face-to-face. The fluttery feeling fills my head—and in the shadow of my darker side, a rush of satisfaction wells up, a perverse thrill that I can stoke his emotions to this gut-deep reaction.
I brace my hands against his shoulders to maintain space between us, but it’s only for show. My bluff fades to weak-kneed enthusiasm the instant he snags my wrists and pulls them down, leaning in so our noses almost touch.
“Reality check right back at ya,” he says, his breath a hot rush in the chilly room. “I know you’re not a kid anymore. You think I’m blind?” His fingers lace through mine, pinning my arms against the cold, smooth mirrors so our heartbeats pound against each other. “You’re the one who’s oblivious. Because there’s nothing brotherly about the way you make me feel.”
My brain shuts down. I must’ve swallowed every moth spirit from here to kingdom come. I can swear they’re rippling through my stomach.
Jeb releases my fingers and cups my face in his hands, barely touching me, like I’m breakable. “It’s me I’m losing control of. Hundreds of sketches, and I still can’t get enough of your face.” He traces the dimple in my chin with his thumb. “Your neck.” His palm moves along my throat. “Your …” Both hands find my waist and drag me off the table so we’re standing toe to toe. “I’m not wasting another second drawing you,” he whispers against my lips, “when I can touch you instead.” He presses his mouth to mine.
A spark, hot and electric, jumps between us. Shock and sensation shimmer through me, aglow with his heat and flavor. Six years of secret desire. Six years of denying that he’s the orbit of my world.
To think, he’s been running from me, too.
Adrift in disbelief and pleasure, I freeze. My arms hang limp at my sides, fists opening and closing. Jeb’s mouth vibrates against mine in a groan. He coaxes my hands around his neck, bending closer.
He tastes amazing—like chocolate and salt. Familiar yet new and exciting. I clutch my fingers around his neck. The feelings I’ve been suppressing uncoil and thrash inside me like electric eels, shocking me to life. Every sensory receptor hums, hyperaware. I taste him, breathe him, feel him.
Only him.
My lips follow his, pulsing slow and soft and warm. His labret scrapes my chin, a harsh and sexy counterbalance.
His hands guide my jaw, showing me how to tilt my face. He teases my lips open with his. I run my tongue along his teeth, finding that crooked incisor before his tongue catches mine.
Maybe I’m breathing too hard. Maybe I’m slobbering too much. Maybe I’ll never measure up to the other girls he’s been with. But it doesn’t matter, because of all the things I’ve experienced on this journey—shrinking and growing, flying sprites, living chess pieces—not a one of them is more magical than this moment.
His kisses fade to nuzzles along my face and neck, soft and poignant. “Al,” he whispers. “You taste so sweet … like honeysuckle.”
“Don’t,” I murmur, in a daze.
He draws back, eyes heavy and dark. “You want me to stop?”
“No.” I’ve fallen asleep praying for you to look at me like this. To touch me like this. “Don’t break my heart.”
Moth shadows glide above him in the mirrored ceiling, distracting me from the fierceness of his frown. “I’d cut mine out first.”
I believe he would. Stretching to tiptoe, I clasp his ponytail. This time, I kiss him. He responds with a spine-tingling growl, fingers digging into my hips. I skim my gloved palms down to find his chest, seeking the scars. Stopping at the chains on his waist, I grip them until the metal bites into my fingers and back us against the wall. A chill seeps into my shoulder blades from the mirror, but the perfect fit of his body against mine lights my blood with a thousand tiny fires, consuming me.
We’re both so into it, neither of us hears the footsteps until a snarl breaks us apart. We turn to find Morpheus standing there with enough rage in his black eyes to send the Devil packing for heaven.
Jeb tugs his fingers from the rings in my belt but keeps a hand at my lower back. I touch my lips; they’re throbbing and gluttonous, hungry for more.
“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” Morpheus’s voice isn’t liquid this time. It grates like rusted nails along my eardrums. He peels off his gloves and slaps them against his palm, wings droopy and trailing the floor like a cape. “Perhaps you might give Alyssa her lipstick back. We haven’t time to find more before dinner.”