Because she would fit perfectly in my hands.
My power swirls to life, skitters over her flesh, then settles on her… fingers.
I stare at them. They’re nice fingers, for sure. Anything she did with them would also be nice, I’m equally sure. I’ve a long list of very intimate things that fingers can do – but right now my deepest desire is to still them.
Before I’ve finished that thought, I’m slipping around behind her and leaning over her bent figure. My body molds perfectly around hers, making her breath falter and her movements still. I trace the length of her arms, sliding my hands over hers and replacing the grip she has on her hair. Slowly, she stands, her arms lowering as I take over the task of fastening her hair into a band.
I can feel the little stutter in her breathing, the way she leans back against me. The way she enjoys my presence. No clothes tearing and desire-filled moans, or bodies rushing toward a single moment of pleasure, leaving sweat stains on the sheets and red marks where fingernails raked over skin.
None of that.
Just... this. A soft touch, a moment of comfort, an unassuming companion.
My magic dances along my fingertips, alive with desire and making little wisps of steam rise from her damp hair.
This.
This moment.
This touch.
This is exactly where I want to be.
The band snaps tight, and her hair is neatly in place. She lets out a soft exhale. “Thank you.”
“You have had hair all your life, right?” I tease, my fingers trailing down to rest on her shoulders.
“Yes. Just never this long. Cook and the knife and the hacking usually left it short and, well, nasty. It’s growing like crazy. Your hair is too. Killian can almost put his in a band.”
I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin just behind her ear.
“Pax wanted me to come up to you – what for?” she asks.
“I’d rather keep playing with your hair,” I admit. I kiss her neck once more, a diversion as I find the band and pull it out.
“Hey,” she squeaks, her hand flying backwards as she turns and tries to wrestle the band from my fingers.
I hold it aloft, too high for her to reach, biting the corner of my lip as I look down at her. Damn Pax for making me do this, and damn this whole mess we’re in for needing me to do this to her.
Forgive me, Kitten, for whatever it is we’re about to read.
Six Paces
I tackle Roarke, and we go down in a tangled heap on the floor. In one hand he has my band, in the other a book he’d snatched up off the workbench. I’m pretty much lying over the top of him, both of his legs wrapped around one of mine and keeping me from wriggling any higher and reaching his hands – and my hair band.
He stops laughing long enough to suck in a breath. “I will give it back when I’m finished.”
I’m not even sure why I want it so badly. Except, having my hair flop around in my eyes is annoying, and I only own one band – so the idea of losing it is a little terrifying.
“But you have to get off me first,” he says, but I couldn’t even if I tried. The guy has serious leg strength.
“You have to get off me,” I shoot back.
His chest rumbles beneath me, and slowly he relaxes his legs and the grip they have on mine. “Just watch your knees.”
I ever… so… slowly lift myself off of him, putting one knee on the floor so close to his crotch that even I’m surprised I missed anything important.
“Did I miss?” I ask, fluttering my eyelashes just to get another laugh out of him.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, his hair falling back in a wave.
Damn, the guy has good hair. Annoyingly good. Like give-it-to-me good.
“I don’t need to kiss you,” he says so softly and gently that it takes me a second to realize what he’s actually said.
“I don’t need to kiss you either,” I whisper back.
“No, I’m serious. This is taking next to no energy at all. A little, but not like before. My power isn’t hunting for you. It isn’t hunting for anyone.” His sentence ends in nothing more than a whisper; the words – or their meaning – have knocked the volume right out of him.
He abandons the hair band on the floor and lifts his hand to cup my cheek. “I don’t want to ruin this.”
His lips are still moving, still trying to get his sentence out, when I dive for my band. I snatch it up off the floor and roll, thumping into the bench seat by the window.
“Mine,” I declare in victory.
He offers me a lopsided smile. It makes me think my antics might actually be endearing – but most likely they’re just annoying. He moves across to me, and I’m still trying to work out what he’s doing and trying not to knock over an awkwardly stacked pile of books next to my elbow when he slips in behind me and pulls me into the V of his legs. He leans back against the half-wall under the window seat. Before I can argue, he
