23
MAEVE
Maeve tasted him and hated how right it felt.
Not because the kiss was good, she’d known that the first time he walked back into her tavern and messed up her equilibrium, but because he kissed her like ten frozen years hadn’t passed. Like he’d been chasing this same mouth in memory and now finally, finally had it again.
Outside, the storm howled and shoved against the windows. Up here it was only firelight and shadows and the sound of her own breath getting away from her.
She didn’t want that to be true. Didn’t want him to be the place she softened. But his hand slid up her spine, broad and hot, and her lioness simply… stopped fighting. All that pacing, all that ready rage, went liquid.
She broke the kiss first. Only because she needed air.
“This is a mistake,” she said, still in his lap, still holding his shirt in both hands.
“I know you’ll think so,” he said, voice rough, mouth kiss-swollen. “You making it anyway?”
She looked at him then. Golden hair mussed, amber eyes dark with heat, jaw shadowed, that stupid cocky mouth finallyhonest. He wasn’t trying to bowl her over. He was offering. Big, dangerous, too-much lion, sitting in her living room in front of her fire, offering.
It hit her then why she kept losing ground with him.
Because he wasn’t trying to own her.
He was trying to stand with her.
Her throat tightened. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”
His exhale was pure relief.
She kissed him again, slower this time, letting herself taste. Letting herself enjoy. His lips were warm, patient, but he met her every time she tilted or nipped, like he already knew her rhythm. His hands slid under her sweater, over her ribs, thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts through the thin bra, and her body answered with a heated rush that had very little to do with the fire.
She tugged her sweater off and tossed it toward the armchair. “If we’re doing this,” she said, breathless, “I’m not doing it half-dressed.”
He grinned, heat and hunger all over his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
He helped her with the bra clasp, big fingers surprisingly deft. The straps slid down her shoulders. Cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by his hands. Warm, reverent, claiming nothing. Just touching.
“Gods, Maeve,” he murmured, eyes dropping over her. “You always were trouble.”
“Still am.” She arched into his palms. “Keep up.”
He did. He bent and closed his mouth around one peaked nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Pleasure arrowed low. She fisted his hair, holding him there, feeling the steady pull, the way he groaned when she rolled her hips in his lap. She could feel him, hard and hot under her, trapped by his jeans. Her lioness purred, pleased to have that effect.
“Shirt,” she said, tugging.
He stripped it off in one smooth motion. Broad chest. Powerful arms. Tanned skin mapped with scars from fights he hadn’t told her about. Everything in her that loved strength, not for dominance, but for protection, sat up and took notice.
She kissed him again, harder, pushing him back into the couch cushions so she could get his belt. He lifted his hips so she could strip him. She slid his jeans and boxers down together, freeing him.
He was always so proportionate, but even now he seemed much larger than before. Her pussy ached with heat at the memory.
She wrapped her fingers around him, slow, testing his weight, her thumb skimming the damp head. His breath hitched. His hips twitched.
He started leaking over her hand with a slow steady drip. She lapped it up, unable to stop herself with the way he moaned while she worked.
Then, he caught her wrist, brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles. “My turn.”
He shifted, fast for his size, and suddenly she was the one on her back on the couch, firelight painting the ceiling, hair spilled over the cushion. He slid down her body, tugging at her leggings.
