And…God!
I’ve seen him shirtless before—at the stream this morning, water sliding over defined muscle. But up close, in firelight, with his eyes on mine and his breath coming faster—
It’s not the same.
I trail my fingertips over his chest. Feel the hard muscle beneath hot skin. Trace the tattoos that wind across his shoulders and down his arms in patterns that seem almost alive in the flickering light.
Scales. Flames. Wings.
Wait—
“Mara.” His voice is rough. Strained. “If you want to stop—”
“I don’t want to stop.” I lean in, press my lips to his throat. Feel his pulse jump beneath my mouth. “Do you?”
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “But you have been drinking, and I will not—”
“I’m tipsy. Not drunk. And I’m very, very sure about this.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Are you?”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Searching my face for… what? Doubt? Hesitation?
He won’t find either.
“Yes,” he says finally. “I am certain.”
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deliberate. His hands move to the shirt I’m wearing and pause.
“May I?” he asks.
The formality is so at odds with the heat between us that I almost laugh. “Yes. God, yes.”
He lifts the fabric carefully, like I’m something precious instead of a walking disaster. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver.
Then his hands are on me—warm palms sliding up my ribs, over my shoulders, down my arms. Learning the shape of me.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
I silence him with another kiss. Can’t handle compliments right now. Can’t process the way he’s looking at me like I’m more than just Mara Jones.
My hands work at the laces of his leather pants. He helps again, kicking them off with less grace than before. Then we’re skin to skin, heat to heat, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
I’ve had sex before. Awkward fumbling in college. A few relationships that fizzled before getting serious.
Nothing that felt like this.
Like my body recognizes something my mind refuses to acknowledge.
His mouth moves from my lips to my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Down to my collarbone. Lower.
When his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him with a gasp. His tongue circles the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it—just this side of too much.
My fingers tangle in his hair. Holding him there. “K—”
His hand slides down my stomach. Over my hip. Between my thighs.
When he touches me—really touches me—I nearly come apart.
“So wet,” he murmurs against my breast. “So ready.”
