Severin studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Ben’s. It was a searching, hungry kiss. His hand wrapped around Ben’s head, holding on to him instead of the tree. Ben’s hand fisted in Severin’s hair, brushed over horn, rough and cold as the back of a seashell. A few moments later, when he pulled away, Ben was trembling with some combination of lust and anger and fear. Because, yes, he’d wanted that. But he hadn’t wanted it thrown in his face. “Is it wrong that I like that you tremble? That you flinch?” Severin asked. Ben swallowed. “I’m pretty sure it’s not
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