The touch of their lips was like silk. The softest part of a rose petal, the edge of a feather, the first hint of dawn.
It felt inevitable, somehow. Inevitable and precious.
Elysia's breath caught—and then she let herself sink into it.
It was like a whispered promise: the press of Malvoria's mouth, the hint of her scent, the way her eyes flickered closed.
Their lips parted. The kiss deepened.
Elysia gasped. Her body flared to life. Her hands skimmed up Malvoria's thighs, finding the smooth silk of her stockings, the curve of her hip.
Malvoria breathed out a curse, her grip tightening around Elysia's waist.
"You've got fucking soft hands," she said.
Elysia smirked. She was drunk on the sensation already—on the taste of Malvoria on her lips, the warmth of her skin, the slow way she responded.
