The Faceless Woman by Emma Hamm (i love reading .txt) 📕

where neck met shoulder, stroking the artery pulsing against her fingers, then cupped the back of his head and pulled him back down to her.

They paused, lips barely touching, breath mingling in a heated mist.

“The stories always say the cruelest of all creatures are wrapped in sin and pleasure,” she breathed. “And you are the most dangerous enemy I have ever battled.”

“Do you think I’m going to destroy you?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, I think you will.”

And then there were no words.

She closed her eyes and focused on the ragged sound of his breathing and the sensation of his knuckles, the callouses on the backs from fist fights.

Her eyes snapped open to devour the sight of him. He arched back, whipping his jacket and shirt off in one swift movement. Lethal, he was barely contained energy vibrating in a body that pulsed with power.

Shadows danced across a lean but strong body. Moonlight smoothed the planes of his chest and the ripples of his stomach into carved alabaster. The fire behind him gilded the edges of his form and sent copper strands dancing through his hair.

He was beautiful. A man with wings of a raven, the strength of a lion, and the eyes of a god.

His ribs expanded, muscles rippling with tension as he stared back at her. He traced the outline of her body with his gaze, and she felt it as sure as a touch.

Bran reached out, nothing else moving but his hand, and gently stroked her shoulder, the curve of her waist, the outline of her hip. He blew out a breath and shook his head.

Aisling didn’t ask what he was thinking; she knew. He stretched forward, stripping himself of any lingering fabric, and pressed skin to skin. She gasped when he ran his fingers over her from top to bottom, again and again.

He pressed his lips to the hollow at her collarbone. Dragged teeth and tongue over the peaks of her breasts, followed the line of her body to the dip of her belly button. He nipped her hipbone, licked the back of her knee.

Over and over again, he discovered new mysteries she hadn’t even known her body had hidden. He branded himself to her until all she could think, feel, know…

Was him.

Her world began and ended with this strange, impossible man. It didn’t matter that when he leaned forward, pressing himself inside her, a flare of pain startled her.

Feathers pressed hard against her cheek, surely leaving marks behind. As he drew back, rocking onto his heels and dragging her up into his lap, she wondered if he had given her wings.

She inhaled his exhale, drugging herself on his scent and taste. He delicately brushed his fingers across her back, playing the raised bones like a harp. He strung magic through her until she was certainly as divine as he thought her to be.

She threw her head back, and he pressed his lips against her throat.

“With me now,” he whispered, his voice rasp. “Together, as we should have been from the start.”

Every fiber of her being gathered up into one great bunch and then splintered apart. She shattered into stardust. He pulled her against his chest as if he were gathering up each individual piece. He shuddered, silent and satiated as she.

Aisling was lost in the nebula he had created. She slumped against him, curled against his heartbeat as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird. She was suddenly not herself, but a piece of him as well. He existed somewhere in the bottom of her ribs, a warm and tender reminder that, for at least one night of her life, she was a treasure.

“Stay,” she whispered to his chest, “just for one night.”

He dragged her down to the pillows and cushioned her head against his heart. “Sleep, little witch. I’ll keep the nightmares at bay.”

And so she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Death Of The Duchess

Aisling stretched, feeling sore in muscles she’d never known existed. She had no idea what time it was since the sun never reached this forgotten place, but she knew she was comfortable and warm. She hugged a pillow to her chest with a sigh.

When was the last time she had slept on anything resembling a bed? And certainly never something as cloudlike as this.

Muffling a sleepy snort, she rolled onto her side and opened her eyes.

They widened in shock. He was still here. Bran, the raven-haired warrior who had dismantled her person last night was still spread across her bed like some kind of Fae god.

Aisling blinked. Even in sleep, he somehow was dangerous to look at. Dark lashes fanned across his cheeks, leaving bruised smudges against his pale skin. One hand lay open next to his jaw, the other flung across his smooth chest.

She’d never seen a man with a smooth chest. Human men were beast-like in their build, dark, swarthy, tanned by the sun and dusted with hair to protect them from the elements. But this Unseelie had no need to be protected. He would beat back anything that tried to harm him with little more than a look.

Aisling made a face. She couldn’t afford to lose herself like this. He was a man, and they were all the same.

Weren’t they?

The pressure in her chest grew unbearable. She was always a loner. She didn’t need anyone in her life, and no one had ever wanted to be involved in her witchcraft. This man had forced himself through her walls, shattered the cage around her heart, and now she was… falling.

Falling so hard and so fast that it stole her breath. She pressed a hand against her chest, but that didn’t help.

Gulping in air, she carefully swung her legs over the edge of the mound of pillows and crawled toward her clothing. Not the dress, that would be too obvious. Instead, she found the clothing she’d arrived in.

Dirt stained the fabric and grime covered the hem, but it