Chapter 9: The First Time

Samantha POV

The wine had made me warm, but it was Maddox who set my skin on fire.

He rose from the cushions and extended his hand toward me, his black eyes glowing softly in the candlelight. The bard's melody shifted into something slower, more intimate, the notes wrapping around us like silk.

"Dance with me," he said. It was not a question.

I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me gently to my feet. The veranda stretched out before us, open to the night sky, the stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet.

The lamps flickered around us, their warm light pooling on the stone floor and casting dancing shadows across the walls.

He drew me close, one hand resting on my waist, the other still holding mine. We swayed slowly, barely moving, our bodies pressed together from chest to hip. I could feel the steady beat of his heart, could smell the dark pine and storm wind scent of him that made my head spin.

"You are beautiful," he murmured against my hair. "More beautiful than any star in that sky."

I tilted my head back to look at him. His face was so close, his lips parted, his eyes dark with something that made my stomach flutter.

"You are not so bad yourself, my king."

He smiled, and then his hand left my waist and rose to cup my cheek. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, feather light, sending shivers cascading down my spine.

"Samantha," he whispered. And then he kissed me.

It was soft at first. Tentative. His lips brushed against mine like a question, asking permission, asking for something I was more than ready to give. I rose onto my toes and pressed closer, and the kiss deepened.

The world fell away.

There was no curse, no throne, no kingdom waiting to be saved. There was only him and me and the heat building between us like a fire catching flame. His hand slid into my hair, tangling in the loose waves, and I sighed against his mouth. My fingers found his shoulders, gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulled him closer still.

The mate bond roared to life.

It had been there since the moment we first touched, a thread of warmth pulsing beneath my skin. But now it blazed. Every nerve in my body sang with it, every breath I took carried his scent deeper into my lungs. I could feel him through the bond, his desire, his longing, his absolute certainty that I was his and he was mine.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His chest was heaving. His lips were swollen.

"I want you," he said, and the raw honesty in his voice stole the air from my lungs. "Tell me you want this too. Tell me you want me."

I could not speak. My throat was too tight, my heart too full. So I nodded, and then I pulled him back down to me.

The kiss was hungrier this time, needier. He walked me backward, his hands never leaving my body, until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fell onto the soft furs, and he followed me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress, warm and solid and perfect.

He kissed my jaw. My throat. The hollow at the base of my neck. Each touch sent sparks racing across my skin, and I arched beneath him, my fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him to me.

"You are so soft," he breathed against my collarbone. "So warm. I have dreamed of this."

His hand slid down my side, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, the long slit of my silk dress. When his fingers brushed my bare thigh, I gasped. His touch was electric, sending waves of heat through my body that pooled low in my belly.

He lifted his head and looked down at me. His eyes were molten gold, burning with a fire that had nothing to do with the curse.

"I want to see you," he said.

He sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head. The fabric fell away, and I forgot how to breathe.

His torso was a map of hard planes and soft shadows, muscles that flexed and shifted with every movement. Scars crossed his chest, old wounds from battles I did not know, from years of suffering I could only imagine. But he was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that made my mouth dry and my hands ache to touch him.

He took my hand and pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart. I felt it pounding beneath my palm, strong and wild.

"I am yours," he said. "Every scar. Every broken piece. All of it. Yours."

My eyes stung with tears I did not shed. I traced the lines of his chest with my fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight roughness of the scars. He closed his eyes at my touch, a low sound escaping his throat.

"Samantha," he murmured. "Please."

I understood.

He reached for the ribbon at my shoulder and pulled it loose. The silk strap slipped down my arm, and the dress pooled around my waist. I should have felt exposed, vulnerable. But beneath his gaze, I felt beautiful. Worshipped.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to my shoulder, to the curve of my neck, to the hollow of my throat. Each kiss was soft, reverent, a prayer written on my skin. His hands moved over me with gentle urgency, learning the shape of me, the places that made me gasp and the places that made me moan.

The bond flared hotter.

I could feel him through it, not just his desire but his wonder. He could not believe I was real. He could not believe I was here, beneath him, wanting him as much as he wanted me.

"I have you," I whispered, pulling his face to mine. "I am not going anywhere."

He kissed me again, deeper this time, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down into the warmth of the furs. Our bodies pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart. The candles flickered. The stars watched. And the bond between us blazed like a beacon in the darkness.

He was mine. I was his.

And we were only just beginning.