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Her breath fanned over his cheeks, warm and damp. His fingers dragged gently over the skin on the nape of her neck, millimetre by millimetre, until her lashes flutter and the softest gasp escapes her lips. Ashura wished he could lean forward, claim them as his.
She smiled, tilted her chin up the tiniest bit in an unspoken invitation; do it.
He shuddered. She was storm and electricity, bundled in shape of a human being, nails clawing at the ragged fabric of his dirty shirt, eyes filled with want and fire. It would be easy, it was as simple as counting down from ten to one. Lean in. Conquer what was his to take.
He pulled away all the same. Regret tugged at his heart and mind, filling his bones with lead.
“Oh, milady.” His voice was a tired rasp, an apology in itself. “I am old and broken. What could I possibly offer you?”
She fell silent for a heartbeat, eyes wide and head slightly tilted to the side in an owlish motion. Her fingers trailed up his back, following the path of his spine, vertebra by vertebra in a motion that did nothing to make her face more readable.
“Well, I am young and broken.”
Her words were clear, clad in the sober rationality of a truth long accepted.
“If I wanted a picture perfect princeling to show me every day just how backwards I am, I would have gone looking somewhere else.”
She smiled; a wordless invitation.
This time, he did not decline.