The instant Elysia's lips met hers, Malvoria felt something in her chest snap—a tight, coiled thing that had been waiting, waiting for this, waiting for her, waiting for the moment when restraint would no longer matter.
Heat surged through her veins, burning, consuming, as if her entire body had been set aflame, as if every inch of her had been starving for this exact moment.
And Elysia—gods, Elysia—her lips were urgent, desperate, pressing against Malvoria's with something raw, something reckless, something that sent a sharp thrill down her spine.
For a heartbeat, Malvoria did nothing but feel it.
The softness of Elysia's lips, the way she leaned into the kiss like she had given up trying to fight it, the way her fingers curled instinctively against Malvoria's chest as if she was holding onto her—as if she was afraid of what would happen if she let go.
Malvoria liked that.
No.
She loved it.
And she wanted more.
