Seamus shivered, not just from the chill crawling through the garden, but from Dahlia herself.
She wasn't in the same league as Isolde, but she carried a different kind of terror, a slow-moving, honey-dipped madness that slipped right under the skin.
And gods help him, that danger was strangely intoxicating. Like any man that chases after adrenaline, Dahlia's existence was sweet because of it.
Her nipples dragged lightly down his back as she shifted, her bare skin brushing him like cold silk.
Her hands glided from his arms to his chest, fingers splaying as if she was marking territory. She hugged him from behind with the confidence of a predator that knew its prey wouldn't escape.
The night itself seemed to lean in. The fountain murmured behind them, water catching the moonlight like scattered silver.
She was a witch, a siren, a woman carved from temptation and death.
"Well, if you insist—"
"Good." Dahlia cut him off.
