A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

“No.” He shook his head. “I would’ve remembered you.”

I hadn’t seen him at all, but I’d known how this would go, from fifteen different conversations with these sailors—they were all the same. And I knew that no matter how indifferent Weston really was, this would still annoy the hell out of him. And I was right.

“Smith,” he said harshly, and maybe if I hadn’t heard it enough times, I would have missed the threat in his voice. The captain glanced at him before dropping my wrist, but his hand ran down my thigh to my knee before truly leaving me.

I felt Weston’s gaze follow the entire movement, saw his grip tighten around his cup out of the corner of my eye.

Normally the touch

would have irritated me, but with a Titan’s hot gaze suddenly on the side of my face, telling me if I didn’t leave his table I’d regret it, well, this couldn’t have gone better in my opinion. It wasn’t me who couldn’t maintain their indifference.

His eyes followed me as I walked away, and it felt like the temperature rose from him just being here, his attention on my back.

The reaction I’d gotten from him was addictive; it sent a rush through my blood, and I urged to feel it again, to see something else from him than his back as he walked away from me. So, I did something degrading, juvenile, and a little manipulative.

Any of the newcomers trickling into the tavern, well, I let them treat me like a willing serving wench—shameless flirting and innocent touches, anyway. The worst it’d gotten was when some man pulled me down on his lap for a second, before Sunny yelled at him and he let go.

I refused to look at Weston’s table, but after that episode, my breaths were shallow, like I could feel the tension that suddenly overtook the room.

I tried to pretend he wasn’t there at all. It was the only table I wouldn’t look at, but the only table I was truly aware of. I couldn’t figure it out, but him, just sitting there, it jumbled my thoughts into a mess of wondering where he was looking, what he was saying, thinking.

Every time I’d walk closer in his direction, the undying awareness under my skin would tingle, sending a rush of nerves through me, and I’d brush my hair over my shoulder, anything to keep my hands busy, my mind off the man sitting there, his presence driving me mad with an assortment of feelings.

It had to be loathing. That’s what I told myself. A severe loathing.

My skin burned from the heavy heat trickling in through the open doors, and from a Titan’s gaze brushing me like a ray of raw sun against my skin.

I’d walk just a bit closer to Weston than necessary every time I made my way by this table. Not purposively, of course. Just . . . circumstances.

Anyway, this time I might have misjudged the space between us as I moved out of the way for a man passing through. Weston was so close that my hip brushed his arm. It felt like fire, my breaths stilling. I hadn’t even glanced at him, just pretended that it was a completely indifferent touch, but the truth was, I was losing my mind. I needed air. Yes, air.

But before I could rush off, I felt it. His hand rested lightly on the back of my thigh, almost feather-light, but all my breath caught in my lungs, and I froze. My stomach tightened as the heat from his palm burned through my dress, so hot.

The captain across from him took a swig of ale, flicking his inquisitive gaze between us while Weston said something to him, but I didn’t hear it, because his hand brushed a trail of fire across my backside and up to my hip, before he stood, guiding me through the tavern to the back.

It felt like everyone was looking at me, and I realized exactly what this looked like: a quick tup with a whore. My heart beat like a drum when we passed Sunny in the kitchens whose eyes went wide as he pushed open the back door, his hand sliding off my hip to my back, guiding me out.

My stomach tightened as the door shut, secluding me in this dark alley only lit by moonlight.

“Weston, what—”

But I never got to finish what I had to say because my back hit the door, and then his mouth was on me, his lips parting mine without hesitation, a sizzle igniting inside me as his tongue brushed my own.

YES. I never needed air, I needed this.

Sparks fired under my skin, a rush of warmth spreading throughout my blood, and I kissed him back like I’d been planning this for years, running my hands up his jerkin around his neck and into his hair.

His lips played mine over and over, his tongue sweeping in and tangling with mine as if he were angry with me and himself, and the only way to get it out was through our mouths. He was furious. I could feel it in his movements, hear it in his breaths. And I loved it.

Every warm, wet brush of his tongue sent a hot vibration of pressure on a lazy path between my legs.

The heat of his hands slid down to my backside, squeezing as much as he could fit in his palms, before pulling me up against him, in a position aligning us so much better.

I pressed against him, getting as close as I could; even the minutest touches sent pleasure flaring, burning hotter: the brush of his fingers on the sides of my bare thighs; the glide of my breasts against his chest every time we swayed into another open-mouthed kiss; the soft yet rough pressure of his lips against my own.

I thought the heavy pressure inside me would combust when he pulled the hair at my nape so that he could trail his mouth down my throat. It built even hotter, a moan escaping in between two desperate breaths as he nipped my earlobe, following up with a gentle suck behind my ear.

He lifted me, and then dropped me on a stack of crates, his hands sliding further and further up my thighs, pushing my dress up as he went. Every nerve ending was suddenly in that spot; each minuscule movement had me swaying, urging his hands to push up my skirts all the way.