The Highest Price to Pay by Maisey Yates

to the edge of the terrace, looking at the lake glittering in the pale moonlight. It was beautiful, a natural wonder. It made her feel empty. Because she suddenly realized she’d never truly enjoyed the beauty of her surroundings. She’d always lived with such manic desperation, to be better, to be more successful.
    Then Blaise was standing beside her, his large masculine hand gripping the wrought-iron rail. Before meeting Blaise she’d never really stopped to admire the differences between a man’s hand and a woman’s hand. She had never stopped to appreciate the effect that difference had on her.
    He lifted the hand she’d been so focused on, cupped her cheek.
    She lifted her eyes, met his gaze. It was easier in the dim light. He slid his hand down her neck, the undamaged side, and she shivered at the sensation. He leaned in, pressing his cheek against hers, his skin hot, roughened by stubble.
    He pressed his lips to the hollow beneath her ear and a sharp groan escaped her lips. It was shocking. It was pleasure beyond anything she’d known before, that brief brush of his mouth on her tender flesh.
    He kissed her again, this time on curve of her neck, the tip of his tongue teased the skin there. He raised his head, golden eyes searching hers.
    She wanted to beg for him to kiss her lips, and yet she didn’t want to alter his plan. She wanted to see what he would do next. Her heart was thundering in her ears, drowning out thought and reason, drowning out everything but the kind of desire she’d only ever dreamed about.
    He kissed her again, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth this time. His hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers worked into her hair, gripping her, clinging to her as though he had to hold her to him. It thrilled her that she could affect a man like him. That he wanted her.
    She felt her lips part of their own volition, her tongue sliding out to moisten them. He took it as an invitation, and she was glad, because she’d certainly meant it as one.
    He didn’t crash down on her like a wave. He dipped his head slowly, his lips hovering over hers, sending sparks of need raining through her. Her entire body begged for his touch, but her lips ached.
    He rubbed his nose against hers, slowly, lightly, before closing the distance between them. He teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, but she was suddenly afraid to move. Afraid that if she did, she might wake herself up, that she might discover it was nothing more than a dream, and that she was alone in her apartment in Paris.
    One hand still buried in her hair, he snaked the other arm around her waist, hand spread over her back, the heat breaking her from her fog. This wasn’t a dream. Blaise was real. And he was kissing her.
    She parted her lips for him then, gladly, enthusiastically. She shivered when his hot tongue slid against hers, exploring her mouth, tasting her, savoring her as though she were a delicacy.
    She felt her hands unclench, lifted them so she could cling to his shoulders. If she didn’t, she would simply melt into a puddle at his feet.
    The boys she had kissed hadn’t prepared her for a man like Blaise, couldn’t possibly have prepared her for the tidal wave of desire that a simple kiss had sent crashing through her entire body.
    He untangled his fingers from her hair, one hand anchored on her hip now, the other roaming over her curves, cupping her breast, his thumb sliding over her nipple until it ached, until she felt hollow and needy, ready and desiring to be filled by Blaise.
    “I have to touch you,” he whispered, abandoning her mouth, lowering his head to press a kiss to her cloth-covered breast.
    His hand reached around to her zipper. “Ella,” he said, his voice husky, thick with desire.
    She shock of air that hit her skin, the slide of the zipper and the cold reality of her own name, brought her back to her senses, and with it, brought a rush of panic.
    This had been a fantasy. She had been floating,