inexperienced—so the opposite of what I’d once been.
But oh, how I wanted this.
Our hips finally met, and Wyatt could go no farther. A sense of completion washed over me, tinged with something else that clambered in the far reaches of my mind. I shoved away the memories that threatened to surface and destroy everything, and concentrated solely on him. On us, finally together.
“God, Evy.”
I thrust my hips just a bit, reveling in the exquisite fullness of having him inside me. “Love me.”
He groaned. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
He was hesitant at first, his thrusts shallow and gentle, allowing me to adjust, but it was not what I wanted. I encouraged him with upward thrusts of my own, and his hesitation crumbled. I wrapped my legs around his waist and locked my ankles. He slid in and out, his hard, burning thrusts timed with his labored breathing. I rose to meet him, my own pleasure building again over the persistent throb in my back and the exquisite ache of his length stretching me. Loving me. I tried to ignore the wounds and concentrate wholly on Wyatt.
Not on my position beneath him.
On the way my insides quivered, and on the thick slide of him in my body, the scent of his sweat, the heat of his breath on my face.
Not on the way he pressed me down, held me hard to the mattress.
On Wyatt.
No one else. Nowhere else. Here and now.
Making love.
His pace slowed; a thumb brushed my cheek. “Evy?”
I met his concerned gaze but couldn’t force out words. My mind and body were consumed by conflicting emotions as old memories scratched just below the surface. I didn’t want them but couldn’t seem to turn them off.
Somehow Wyatt knew, or he simply guessed my back was bothering me. He rolled us until Wyatt was beneath me, me straddling his waist, hands on his chest.
In control.
Just us.
I didn’t think I could love him more if I tried.
I set the pace, starting slow, a gentle glide up and down, and nothing else existed. The memories stayed away, beaten into the recesses of my mind by the pleasure coiling in my abdomen. I leaned down, thrusting my tongue into his mouth to taste him, and once again, we shared a breath. He squeezed my hips, and I rocked faster, harder. Our labored breathing melted into a dull roar that blocked out everything except the pounding of my heart and the joining of our bodies. Faster. Harder still, unrelenting. I closed my eyes and held on, his thrusts matching mine, as a second orgasm washed over me, fast and blinding. Pleasure rippled from head to toes, trembling my limbs and seizing my heart. I shouted, hearing only Wyatt’s voice as he roared his climax and spilled into me.
We melted together, a tangle of arms and legs and sweat and sex. I felt his lips on my face and throat. After a bit—seconds? hours?—he slipped out, and we rolled onto our sides. I snuggled close, nearly bursting with satisfaction.
Wyatt grinned at me with swollen lips and rosy cheeks. “You continue to amaze me, Evangeline Stone.” The awe in his voice threatened to turn me into a puddle of goo.
I kissed the center of his chest, tasting the salt of his sweat. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Laughter rumbled through his chest. His hands stroked my arms and shoulders. “Careful, or you may inflate my ego.”
“Arrogance is your emotional tap, right? Just doing my duty as your partner.”
Partner. It was an odd word to use for a man who’d been my boss for the four years I’d known him—save the last month or so of our lives as we’d first become allied fugitives, and then so much more. All in such a short amount of time. Triumph and defeat. Love and loss. Joy and fear. We’d defied death, defeated a demon-possessed elf, protected the future of a were-Clan, saved the lives of countless innocents, and summoned half a truck into a log cabin—not too bad, really.
Wyatt folded me against his chest, and I could have stayed like that forever. Or until restlessness drove me back out into the world, ready to hunt and fight. Knowing I’d be able to return to his arms at the end of the day and be loved and protected all over again.
But I wasn’t able to.
Lips brushed my forehead. “Think we should change the bedding?”
“Be my guest.”
He chuckled. “We should probably get up, though.”
I lifted my head and peered over him. Groaned. The blue neon numbers on the bedside clock announced ten minutes until company arrived. “You’re right.”
“Go clean up. I’ll find some clothes and tidy up in here.”
I gifted him with a soft kiss, which he returned with enthusiasm, then reluctantly climbed out of bed, chilly from the loss of physical contact. I gathered my scattered clothes and went across the hall.
In the bathroom, I washed as best I could, then scrubbed my face and brushed my hair. No time for a proper shower. Everything ached deliciously and for all the right reasons this time. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes bright, and for the first time since waking from that damned coma, I looked somewhat healthy.
I returned to the living area. Wyatt was dressed in someone’s dark blue jeans and a hunter-green polo, not his usual color combo. “What, no black?” I teased.
“Not that looked clean.” He closed the distance between us and settled his hands on my hips. He didn’t have to ask the question lurking in his mind.
“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. Kind of amazing.” I drew him into a gentle kiss, just enough to put the taste of him back on my lips.
The doorbell rang. I jumped, both of us startled by the unfamiliar chime.
“Gina wouldn’t ring,” Wyatt said.
A second chime, followed by a fist rapping on the door. “Mr. Truman?” a muffled male voice said, oddly familiar.
“Who the hell knows you’re here?” I whispered.
He crossed to the door on silent feet and peered through the peephole. His shoulders tensed. Not good.
“Mr. Truman, I need to speak with you.”
Wyatt turned his head toward me and mouthed two words I didn’t understand at first: “James Reilly.” I stared. Mouthed back: “Who?” Then the penny dropped. The private investigator who’d cornered him at Alex’s memorial last week. Fucking hell. Wyatt waved at me. I bolted into the bathroom (apparently my new favorite hiding place) and closed the door nearly all the way.
The front door creaked open. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reilly?” Wyatt’s voice was icy.
“I was hoping for a few moments of your time,” Reilly said. That same conversational tone, designed to set his interviewee at ease.
“I really don’t have a few minutes today. I’m about to head out on business.”
“Of course, and I apologize for—”
“How did you know I was here?”
The silence was deafening. I craned to see. They hadn’t moved from the front door. Still out of my line of sight.
“I’m an investigator, Mr. Truman. It’s my job to find people.”
“Have you been following me?” We both knew that wasn’t possible.
“No, I’ve been following a red-haired young woman who’s come to this apartment several times over the last week.”
Bastard was following Kismet? Why? Reilly said he was looking into the fire at Rufus’s old apartment building,
