“That’s unfortunate. How long will it last?”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. “The magic doesn’t affect the bond – it affects you. You won’t feel what I’m feeling, because you won’t feel anything at all. You’ll be able to make decisions logically, not because of what may or may not be happening to me.” She held out her hand. “I suppose you should try one while I’m still here.”

I picked up an empty glass and tipped the contents of her palm into it. Setting it aside, I said, “Not yet.”

“Tristan.”

Shaking my head once to silence her, I eased the coat off her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Beneath, she wore a boy’s shirt that covered far more than any of her dresses, yet concealed nothing as her body reacted to my touch. The lids of her eyes stayed heavy, but the weariness was washed away by a heat far more to my liking. Catching hold of the laces at her throat, I tugged them loose, her soft exhalation making me ache in a way that bordered on pain.

She caught hold of my hands, lowering them to her hips. “Let me.” Her eyes fixed on mine, holding me in place as she pulled loose my cravat, letting the fabric drift to the floor. She unfastened one button, then the next, her fingers sliding under my shirt to brush against my chest, my stomach, before stopping just above my belt, which she used to pull me closer.

My breath was loud in my ears, quick and ragged, and beyond my control. Her hands drifted back up to my shoulders, pushing my shirt and coat down until they caught on my wrists, binding my arms in place until I was willing to let her go. Which I wasn’t.

Only then did her gaze break from mine, eyes running over me even as her fingers traced feather-light lines of fire down my arms, across my ribs, up my back. She’d touched me before, but it seemed like it had been a thousand years ago. Like I’d been dying of thirst, but hadn’t known it until handed a glass of icy water. She was in my head and in my hands, desire ricocheting back and forth between us. There was nothing like it. There never would be anything like it.

Cécile stood on her tiptoes, the linen of her shirt rough against my skin, her arms wrapping around my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. She kissed me – barely more than a brush of her lips against mine – but it sent a shudder through me. Pushing my control to the very limits.

Her breath was warm. Sweet. “We don’t have much time.”

Prophetic words.

I let go of control.

It was not slow or sweet or gentle. Seams on clothing strained and tore. Kisses were desperate and edged with teeth. Caresses seared, fingernails scraping across naked skin. I needed to know every inch of her. Every taste. Every sound.