She closed her eyes at my touch, her lips parting as she inhaled.
“I want you.”
“You don’t even know me,” she said with a hitch in her breath.
“I could.” I slipped my hand to her waist, fingers angled down to her ass. “If you want me to.”
She opened her eyes, looked up at me. And the hope there, the doubt there, made me hold very still. Waiting.
“I want you to.”
I exhaled and my heart began beating again. “Look at that,” I said softly as I leaned over her. “We agreed on something. It’s a miracle.”
“You should stop talking and kiss—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish that. I drew her against me, all the soft heat and curves of her body. Pushed my fingers up into her hair, my rings muffled by the weight of her curls.
I lowered my head and caught her lips with mine, gentle, slow, teasing. I wanted to savor every sweet texture, every pulse beat that made her. Then I wanted to find out what would unmake her.
She kissed me back, her lips soft, her tongue asking for entrance I willingly gave, then stroking deliciously against mine. She matched my lead, taking it slow, until the hesitancy finally melted out of her muscles and she softened, her arms wrapping around my neck. She stepped into me, her hips against mine.
A pulse of need burned through my bones and made every muscle in my body hard.
I slid my hand down her back, spreading my fingers wide so I could press her closer. Her hands were busy too.
She tugged at my sweater, her hand sliding beneath it only to find my T-shirt. She made a soft moan of disappointment, and I couldn’t help smiling a little.
I drew away from the wonder of her lips. “Problem, love?” I dipped my head again, kissed instead the side of her neck, the heat of my lips against her pulse causing her to gasp, the scent of her filling me with an aching hunger.
“I want . . . ,” she began.
I bit her tender skin, gently, and she gasped again. Her hands clenched in my sweater, tugging, or maybe to steady herself.
“Shame. Now. I want you.”
“Patience,” I said. “We have time.”
I pulled away, rested my hand on her hip until her eyes focused again. I leaned back, far enough so that I could pull the damn sweater off without hitting her in the face. Dropped it to the floor then muscled out of the T- shirt.
She wasn’t standing idle. Her hands pressed against my stomach, and every fiber in my body clenched as she dragged warm fingers downward over my bare skin.
Good God.
Okay, maybe we didn’t have as much time as I thought. Maybe I was the one who didn’t want to be patient.
The T-shirt joined the sweater.
For a moment, standing there, in the low light of the room, she tensed again. Looked up at me. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
I glanced at the bandage. I’d forgotten about it. “Hurt it. Not badly.”
“And this?” she asked. “Is this a glyph?”
She traced the old scar on my chest—well, one of them. The scar from when Terric shoved a crystal containing magic into my mortal wound to make me live again. The crystal was gone now—blown apart when I’d died a second time, sacrificing my body and soul at the altar of Death magic so I could kill that son of a bitch Jingo Jingo.
I didn’t think about the scar much anymore. Told most women it was from a knife fight, or whatever I thought they’d want to hear. Something that would make me sound strong. Heroic.
But that wasn’t what I was going to tell Dessa. I was going to tell her the truth.
“It’s not a glyph, but it was put there by magic. Terric, he did something with magic to save my life. This is the scar from that.”
She nodded. “He’s . . . more than a friend, isn’t he? The look on his face when he opened his door and saw you there the other night, Shame. He loves you, doesn’t he?”
“I think so,” I heard myself saying. Apparently, one truth tonight wasn’t going to be enough.
“But you don’t love him?”
I took a deep breath. The churning mix of feelings I had for Terric came rushing to the surface as if Dessa had opened a part of me that had been long buried. I cared for him—hell, I’d die for him. That was a kind of love, wasn’t it? But the love he wanted wasn’t something I could give.
“I just . . .” I shook my head. “I care. He’s a brother. But I’ll ruin him. One day I’ll be his death. Or he’ll be mine. And that will ruin him too.” I couldn’t say any more because there were tears in my eyes.
Well, that was new. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. No wonder why I never told the truth.
“Lord.” I choked on a laugh. “The things you make me feel, woman.” I lifted my hand to wipe my eyes, feeling like a damn idiot.
But her hands stopped me, one on each wrist, pulling my hands away from my face. So she could see me.
She stood there, her gaze shifting, studying my face, studying my very vulnerable pain I knew she could see there, this weakness I had never showed anyone before.
Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. No more hesitation, no more slow.
I kissed her back, until her warmth replaced the sorrow inside me. Then I picked her up, laid her down upon my bed, and slowly took every stitch of clothing off her, kissing each part of her as I did so. Slid her panties gently down the silk of her skin, and ran my palms up her thighs, as I kissed the curve of her hipbone.
She unhooked her bra and drew it away, offering all of her body to me. I looked down at her, and she smiled softly.
I lowered my mouth to her breast and gently ran my tongue there, savoring the taste of her skin and the shiver of pleasure that ran through her as her nipple hardened.
Her fingers stroked through my hair; the other hand slid up to my right arm braced beside her. She slipped her fingers between mine and pulled my hand toward her.
I reluctantly shifted away and looked down at her again.
“I want all of you,” she whispered. And without breaking eye contact, she removed my rings, one by one, and kissed my bare flesh there.
She was my air, my sensation, my world.
And, for the first time in a very long time, I wondered if this was what love felt like.
“Dog or cat?” she asked.
We were lying together under the covers, me on my back, her beside me. Our bodies were pressed together, her head tucked against my chest, her fingers tracing the old scars there.
“Both,” I said. “Ice cream or sorbet?”
“Sorbet all the way. Have you ever wanted kids?”
“That’s the kind of question that makes strong men run, you know.”
She stopped tracing my scars and looked up at me. “Want me to get your boots?”
“No, no. I got this one. Kids.” I took a deep breath. “I’d never thought I’d live long enough to be a father. So. No.”
“You didn’t say you didn’t want them.”
“True.”
“I think men who want kids are very, very sexy.” She dipped her head. Kissed my nipple. A ripple of pleasure slid through me.
“Well, then, of course I want kids. Loads of them.” It came out, strangely, not flippant. For a second or two I lay there trying to imagine myself holding a little chubby-cheeked Flynn baby with her blue eyes.
