Elysia was drowning.
There was no air, no space, no reprieve, only the relentless press of Malvoria's lips against hers, only the heat pooling in the depths of her stomach, only the slow, devastating way Malvoria kissed her, kissed her like she was something to be devoured.
Kissed her like she wanted to burn her into memory, kissed her like she was trying to pull her under, deeper, deeper still, until there was nothing left but this—this unbearable, intoxicating sensation, this fire that spread through her veins like molten metal.
She should stop this.
She should stop this.
She should push Malvoria away, should remind her—remind herself—that this was dangerous, that it had always been dangerous, that there was nothing safe about the way Malvoria touched he.
About the way Malvoria moved against her, about the way Malvoria had taken her lips like she had every right to them, like she was simply claiming what was already hers.
But instead, Elysia only clung tighter.
