He touches her but she does not immediately touch him back.
And he burns with the cold.
He smolders with a want he has never experienced before. A want for her to touch him, to chase tremors down the length of that rigid spine, a want for her to want to touch him, too. It is primal and it clouds his reasoning so that he takes the flesh of her shoulder gingerly between his teeth. Not enough to hurt, certainly, but enough to convey a message he does not understand himself.
And then, finally, she touches him. Presses her mouth to the vulnerable place where his pulse is the strongest. And it is strong. Strong and steady and sweet. His eyes drift closed, if only for a moment, before the two of them draw away from each other. She skims her mouth across the plain of his cheek, incites a slanted smirk as he fixes his stare to her face again.
“I have been accused of worse,” he muses with that same smirk. He is a devil, almost certainly. A broken, holy thing. Shrouded in a light he does not deserve because there is a darkness that lives in him that not even he has fully realized yet. A darkness that festers like a wound at the very center of him. A darkness that waits.
He studies her a beat longer, the mouth twisted into something other than a smirk. It is not quite a grimace, but there is a kind of predatory slant in it. “If I’m a devil, what does that make you?” he challenges, narrows that golden gaze as he watches her.
