#feyand

*

Feyre tugged the sparlking black dress over her head and made a face as the hem hit her mid thigh.

"This is a shirt," she told Mor. "Are you giving me a skirt, too?"

"On me, sure it's a shirt," Mor called back from the depths of her walk in closet. "You're so petite though, it looks better as a dress."

"I can't go out in public like this."

"Darling, you're in the Night Court now. Put that scandalised look away and try the shoes."

"I do have my own clothes, you know."

"Yes but Rhys has seen all of them and quite frankly, we're bored."

Her statuesque friend popped out wearing her signature red, a dress that wrapped round and around her from the nape of her neck to her ankles and somehow only covered only the bare minumum.

"Besides," Mor continued. "Next to me you'll look like a priestess."

Feyre rolled her eyes, and put on her own shoes. Achieving Mor-level glamour was not worth breaking an ankle.

*

Rhys's tongue licked over Feyre's lip, and it was all the asking he needed to do. The urge to devour him whole was overwhelming- and if she wasn't so light headed, from ale and from kissing him, the thought might have scared her. This wasn't like her at all, this... this desperation, this hunger... then Rhys's tongue on hers made her mind go blank again. Her hands pulled at his shirt, looking for skin she could touch. After all these months of watching the golden brown satin of him, it seemed wholly unfair that she couldn't find any now.

Especially since Rhys was having no such problem- his hands traced down the side of her thigh, pale and bare in the moonlight. Curved to the underside and the squeezed just above her back of her knee. Feyre finally managed to tug the hem of Rhys's shirt free from his trousers, and his skin was hot to the touch.

*

When they got to Rita's, Rhys and the other boys were nowhere to be seen. Feyre didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved- it was getting harder and harder to be around Rhys lately. Worse, it was getting harder and harder to be apart from him.

"Come on," Mor said near her ear, shouting over the noise of the crowd. "Let's get drinks."

Half way through her third tankard, there was still no sign of Rhys. Feyre looked toward the door for the hundredth time, and then scowled in frustration. Since when was she dependent on a male to have a good time? She threw back the rest of her ale, and resolved that she would stop expecting him to come.

Feyre looked around for Mor, and spotted her in a dark corner, laughing loudly at someting a dark haired female had just said. Deciding not to bother the pair, she leaned on the bar and ordered another drink.

"Feyre Cursebreaker," said a voice. Feyre turned to see a handsome fae with gleaming white tusks watching her. "Not here alone are you?" he asked.

"No," Feyre replied. Then, "well, yes." She laughed. "I'm here with a friend who is otherwise occupied."

The fae followed Feyre's gaze, and his eyes twinkled.

"Ah," he said. "In that case, might you be in need of a dance partner?"

"I might be," Feyre smiled.

*

"Do you know," Rhys murmured against her collarbone, "I hate watching you dance with other males."

"Since when?" Feyre gasped, as his hands pulled into fists in her hair. "You've seen me dance with many people."

"Since always," Rhys replied, moving his tongue in the hollow of her throat. "I just try not to show it, as a general rule."

"Why?" Feyre asked, eyes closing and nails scratching over Rhys's shoulder blades. Fabric tore as talons appeared and disappeared from her fingertips.

"Because jealousy is not a good look on me," he said, before sliding very sharp teeth back up the side of her neck. "Especially because you're not actually mine."

His voice dropped to a growl over the last word, and before she could think to reply, Rhys was kissing her again.

*

Feyre tossed her hair back and laughed as the tusked fae twirled her around. She was having fun, actual fun, and it seemed a precious commodity these days.

The fae slid his hands over her hips, and Feyre let him. For once, it felt good to feel attractive. With Rhys, there was always this strange tension of wanting- but not wanting to want. After nearly marrying Tamlin, sometimes it was too much. Too intense. But here, out dancing... it didn't seem like such a bad thing to be lusted after.

Several pairs of eyes had stopped to watch them, and Feyre knew it. Usually, she was surrounded by the Rhys's inner circle, and so people kept their distance. A few more brazen guests always approached Rhys- but of course everyone else paled in comparison to the beauty of the High Lord.

Feyre lifted her arms in the air and moved her hips with the music. She had never, ever been like this in the Spring Court. Tamlin would have a conniption. The beat thrummed through her and on her immortal feet, she could have danced forever.

She almost stopped dead still when she turned and found herself staring into a pair of violet eyes, on the edge of the dancefloor.

*

Feyre was burning properly now, and pushed Rhys's jacket off his shoulders. He let go of her only long enough to shrug out of it, the beautiful fabric falling to the alley floor. Then his hands were on her again, shaping over her hips and then curving over her backside. She thudded against the wall once more. Feyre whimpered in his mouth, and his fingers dug into her.

"Well," Rhys murmured, "this is certainly not the place I'd imagined kissing you for the first time."

"Technically," Feyre argued, "the first place you kissed me was in there."

"Still." Rhys's hands wandered up toward her waist, but Feyre pushed them back down. He grinned and squeezed. "I hope you know that back alley is not usually in my repertoire."

"I don't care where we are," Feyre whispered. "Just don't stop touching me."

Rhys lost the grin and kissed her again, every bit as feverish and frantic as she was. Feyre's absurd little dress rode further up her thighs, and it was too easy for Rhys's next pass to take his fingertips skimming over her rear to graze the cotton of her underwear.

*

Feyre forced herself to keep moving. She wanted to feel this light always. She wanted Rhys to see her being light, and carefree. There he stood, one hand holding a mug of ale and the other in his pocket. She closed her eyes and kept dancing. When she opened them again Rhys was no longer standing on the edge of the crowd.

Feyre turned, and found herself eye level with the High Lord's chest. She looked up in surprise. The fae with the tusks nowhere to be seen.

"Mind if I cut in?" Rhys hummed in her ear, and when she put her hand in his, he took both of her wrists and placed them around his neck.

"Where have you been?" Feyre asked him. She went for an accusatory tone, but it came out giddy. Despite everything, she was happy to see him.

"Got held up at one of the Illyrian camps," Rhys told her. "What have I missed?"

"Well, you're four drinks behind," she said.

"Three," Rhys corrected.

"Two," chimed a voice, and suddenly there was Mor putting a tiny glass in his hand. Rhys laughed, raised it toward Feyre and downed it in on gulp. He made a face.

"Mor, what is this?"

"Okay, technically one, this stuff is very strong," his cousin said, dodging the question. "Now drink this and we'll all be even." She replaced his glass with an identical one, which Rhys rolled his eyes at but still swallowed.

"It's a real talent of hers, huh?" Feyre said.

"What?" asked Rhys.

"Getting her friends drunk!" Feyre told him.

*

Feyre moaned softly at let her head hit the wall behind her. Her hands tightened on Rhys's arms, and he shuddered. His fingers moved again, more surely this time, a little way up and then back down the seam of her. He ducked his head and kissed the swell of her breast, and pressed the pads of his fore and middle fingers against the damp spot they found in her underwear.

"Rhys," she sighed. He glanced up, looking for any sign that might not want this. But she simply watched him, eyes hooded and lips slightly parted. He rubbed his fingers against her again, and she made the sweetest little sound.

"You look so divine like this," Rhys whispered. He kept his fingers moving, his free hand sliding up her back and massaging gently behind her neck. "I wish you could see yourself."

Feyre only moaned again in response, and her blue-gray eyes slid closed. The corner of Rhys's mouth quirked up, and he floated an image toward her. Of her flushed and panting against the wall.

Feyre's eyes flew open.

"Now tell me that's not sexy," Rhys growled.

"Prick," Feyre muttered. "Shields are down..." she trailed off, her eyes rolling back again as Rhys moved her panties to one side and was now sliding his fingers against her bare pussy.

*

It did not take long for Mor's mystery drinks to fizzle into Rhys's bloodstream. Feyre watched the change with delight- how his eyes unfocused slightly, how he pulled her a little more firmly against him.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you drunk," Feyre told him. Rhys frowned.

"I shouldn't do it around you," he said.

"You most definitely should," Feyre argued. "It makes me feel like we are on at least slightly more even footing." Rhys shook his head.

"I feel like we're equals when we're sober."

Feyre snorted. "Well that makes one of us."

"And I get into bad habits when I'm drunk."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm not as careful with you as I should be."

"And those are the words of an equal?" she challenged.

"No," Rhys said. "Not careful like I think you're breakable. Careful like..."

"Like what?"

"Like I want you so badly." His words came out all on a rush, his forehead knocking against hers. "I want you all the time, and I'm only just managing to hold myself back."

Feyre stared at him. He stared back, and neither of them quite realised they had stopped moving.

"So don't," Feyre said quietly. Rhys heard her like there was no one else in the room.

"Don't what?" he asked slowly.

"Don't hold yourself back. Not from me."

*

Rhys buried his face in the crook of Feyre's neck. It was too much to look at her and touch her at the same time- he might combust from the wanting.

She was hot and silken against his fingers, and so wet that he was sliding inside her before he had thought about what he was doing. Feyre's hands curled in his hair, and she lifted her hips to him.

"Gods Feyre..." He pulled back, circled twice around her clit before pushing back into her. Feyre's back arched and the sound that slid from her lips was to die for.

Rhys hovered his thumb over her clit while he worked his fingers inside for her, and she began to drip down his hand.

"Fuck." Rhys sank his teeth into Feyre's shoulder, and breathed in the scent at her pulsepoint. It was headier than the drinks Mor had given him. He moved lower, put his mouth over her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. It peaked gorgeously, and Feyre's hands tugged sharply at his hair.

"Is that what you like, Feyre darling?" he asked her. "Being bound this tightly to me? Hands in your panties and teeth on your nipple?"

Feyre nodded wordlessly, mouth moving but no sounds escaping.

"Can you come like this?" Rhys said.

"Yes," Feyre breathed.

"I'd love you to do it," Rhys told her. "I'd love you to come on my fingers, right here."

Feyre's moans got higher, breathier, and Rhys moved his fingers faster.

"Do it," he whispered at her jaw. "Come for me, darling."

And then she did, and Rhys clamped his free hand over her mouth while she broke apart on his fingers. As much as he wanted to savour the sound of it, this was not a moment he was keen on sharing with any passers by. So he muffled the scream and kept his fingers moving until she started coming down. And then he let go of her mouth and kissed her instead, over and over and pushing her back into the red bricks of Rita's wall.

*

It was in slow motion that Rhys kissed her, the first time.

Dancing bodies jostled all around them but somehow no one touched them, as they leaned into one another, and into one another, and into one another until finally their lips met and the only thing Feyre could hear was her own heartbeat filling her ears.

The first kiss glided smoothly into the second one, as Rhys's fingertips touched her chin, and then her jaw. Feyre stood up on her tiptoes, and the kiss deepened.

Was kissing always like this? Feyre didn't know. Couldn't remember kissing anyone else, ever, not in this moment.

Rhys's hands came around her waist, and she pressed closer to him, tasting orange and jasmine and salt on his lips.

After a moment, Rhys pulled back with a lopsided smile.

"See?" he said. "Bad habits."

Feyre knocked him with her shoulder. "I thought you weren't so bad."

Rhys grinned, and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. He slid his nose down hers, and very nearly kissed her again.

"Come on," he said. Reluctantly. "Let's get some fresh air. Cool down a little."

Feyre exhaled and nodded. She didn't want to stop kissing him... but she supposed they had been drinking, and it might not be the best time to be making relationship-altering decisions right now.

"Right," she agreed. "That'll help."

***

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