Evara Storm is ruthless, cunning, and dead.
Or so everyone in the setting of a fictitious world thinks. She's a pigment of an author's imagination and the villainess of a typical fantasy-romance that just so happens to be Blair Aven's nightmare. Whi...
I'm going to blame biology for necessitating ripples of sexual desires. Because goodness, gracious I can feel every inch of Eli Hawthorne against me.
His hands recline to the creases of my hips and I have to fight off the urge to shiver, because despite my bodily reactions, my mind refuses to surrender to whatever ploy this might be.
I don't know if it's my own exultation of his allure as a fictional character—dimpled and six-feet of soaring height—or if what I'm feeling are Evara's yearning impulses.
Internally reminding myself that I'm the villainess here, I need to grow a backbone and have the last laugh.
"Whatever happened to keeping your word and abiding by our contract, Duke? This is a clear violation of a clause," I huffed, painfully aware of my skin blazing.
"How—"
I stick a pointed finger at his chest and immediately recoil from the devouring closeness of this moment. "Physical contact only when it's imperative to maintaining this charade of matrimony."
"I do think it's absolutely imperative. Right now." His fingers dip perceptively lower, eyes swimming with dark humour.
I squirm under his grip, the action only making our chests brush against each other more. Desperately feeling like I've spun out of control by a banana peel—Gawd, I'm even using Mario Kart metaphorically now (bespeaking of a stroke of genius or mental erosion), but my dismay at that thought is overtaken by Hawthorne trailing a suggestive hand up and down my spine.
Right. back to this fantastical dream. I mean, nightmare.
"And why's that?" I gawked. I feel betrayed by my own body that immediately softens at the touch instead of going rigid—as it should.
His mouth quirks into a self-satisfied grin. "For the mere pleasure of annoying you."
"Are you certain? Or have you fallen in love with me?" I bite back, winning a frown in return.
"As far as feelings are concerned, I think you're the one enamoured."
"Enamoured by hate."
"So you've mentioned, on countless occasions."
Smiling acidly, I resume the unsuccessful act of squirming. "I'm so delighted that we've got that sorted out. Now release me, you big oaf."
"Oaf?"
"Fine. You ogre," I replied, rolling my eyes.
"Keep spouting drivel, and you'll be sorry."
My expression turns sultry, my voice mirroring it. "Two can play this game. Let's see how intact your composure remains when you're the one on the receiving end."
I'm really not hyper-competitive, far from it. But when every nerve of my body is being pressurized by a growing heat and my brain irritated from the lack of self-composure, then anything is possible.
And since being a gorgeous villainess is an added bonus, I snake my arms around Eli Hawthorne's neck and run my fingers through his hair. He goes frigid, startled when I push onto my tippy-toes and crush my frontal frame closer to his.
I know and he knows, that the frail fabric of my nightgown and robe leave little to the imagination. The unspeakable generates a haze of want and longing, my objective achieved but my lips part traitorously of their own accord.
Tilting his head, Hawthorne's gaze rests heavily on my mouth—dark humour glazed over by something else entirely.
And before either of us can make the next move, a steady progression of knocks at the door invisibly dumps ice water over us. We quickly separate, diverting our eyes and straighten.
"Enter," Hawthorne commanded, not quick enough to mask the strain in his voice and rakes a hand through his hair roughly as if the gesture could possibly cool him off.
My fingers twitch, eagerly wanting to fan my face from the rush of embarrassment—I feel caught at doing something wrong, but the feeling pooling in my stomach says otherwise. This is what I get for not having either caffeine or sugar circulating through my bloodstream—bad decisions made on impulse and the aftermath of it.
Hamish casts a perceptive glance between the Duke and I. "Very sorry to disturb you, sir. But Duke Storm wishes to see the Duchess before he leaves."
Hawthorne turns in my direction and a second wave of heat slaps me across the face.
"Lead the way, Hamish," I hurried, following him out of the room without glancing back.
Seeing Duke Storm expectantly waiting with a pocket watch in hand makes my tense shoulders relax and we say our goodbyes, with a promise to write letters in the meantime.
Sighing, I glance back at Hamish who awaits orders. "I would love to breakfast now." Depleted. That's how I feel. I've never had to address the thought of babies and flirt unreservedly with a Duke before—if this continues, I'll at least need to be well fed.
"With the Master, madam?"
"No!" I said, a bit too forcefully. "I mean, the Duke is far too busy at the moment. I do not wish to disturb him or alter his own schedule senselessly."
Call me a coward or an idiot, but the last thing I want to do is face Eli Hawthorne across a table, unable to digest my food because midnight eyes will remind me of his gaze on my lips and the lush touch of his hair.
I'll definitely choke and die.
Hamish retains the information quietly, barely flinching from the outburst. "And afterwards, Duchess?"
Releasing a deprecated sigh, I look heavenward. "Well, I guess I have a wedding to plan."
And thankfully, that's something I can actually control.
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A/N: Everyone at Blair rn:
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