"Hopeless romantics, the lot of you," Clarisse said, but her voice was breathy. She pulled Raine back to steal her taste straight from Raine's lips—a quick flash of tongues—then winked at Lyan over Raine's shoulder.
On the fringe, Lara hovered, silent shadow. Lyan reached a hand toward her. "You, too," he murmured. She stepped forward, not quite meeting any eyes, and knelt. Her kiss was feather-light—just a brush of lips, no sound but the faintest m—but her hands cupped his jaw with surprising heat. She tasted of mountain berries and rainwater collected in stone bowls. When she withdrew, she touched her forehead to his for one steady heartbeat, then sat back with a rare small smile.
The pile of affection threatened to topple him; his head swam. Each woman's scent, taste, the sound of lips parting, the heat of breath—it layered like chords in a song, overwhelming yet harmonious.
