"We have time," she murmurs against my mouth. "Before we need to be downstairs."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Last night was about need. About survival and desperation and fire. This time I want slow. I want to memorize every part of you. I want to take our time."
How can I say no to that?
I strip off her vest, set it carefully aside. Her shirt follows. Then mine. We undress each other slowly, revealing scars and skin in equal measure. The little light through the window is enough for us.
The graze on her arm from this morning is bandaged. I trace around it gently, then lean down and press my lips to the gauze.
"You were hit protecting me," I say.
"I was hit because I chose to stand and fight beside you." She runs her fingers through my hair. "That's different."
I guide her to the sleeping bag spread on the floor. The fabric is worn soft, warmer than the bare wood beneath. We sink down together and I take my time, refusing to rush despite the urgency thrumming through my veins.
My mouth finds the hollow of her throat. Her pulse flutters against my lips. I kiss lower, following the line of her collarbone, feeling her breath catch with each touch. My hands map the curves of her body, learning the landscape of her skin.
"Here," she breathes, catching my wrist and guiding my hand to the curve of her hip where it meets her thigh. "Touch me here."
I oblige, fingers tracing slow circles on her skin. The muscle flexes beneath my palm as she shifts, pressing into my touch. Her head falls back and a small sound escapes her throat, half gasp, half moan. I do it again, adding pressure, watching her face as pleasure builds in her expression.
"What else?" I murmur against her breast.
She shows me. Takes my hand and places it exactly where she wants it. The base of her spine. The tender skin behind her knee. The sensitive curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Each touch draws a different reaction. A gasp. A shiver. My name whispered like a prayer or a curse.
Her hands explore in return, mapping scars and muscle with deliberate attention. She finds the old training injury on my shoulder, fingers tracing the puckered skin before her mouth follows. The sensation sends heat straight through me.
"This one?" she asks, lips moving against the scar.
"Obstacle course. Missed the landing on a rope climb." My voice is rougher than it should be. "Dislocated it. Never quite the same after."
She kisses it again, tender and claiming at once. Then moves lower, finding the knots of tension in my back from too many hours hunched over Emma's files. Her thumbs dig in, working the muscles until I groan.
"Better?"
"Don't stop."
She doesn't. Her exploration continues, finding the spot just below my ribs that makes me flinch and then laugh despite everything. She grins against my skin, clearly delighted by the discovery.
"Ticklish, Sheriff?"
"Only there." I catch her hands, pin them gently above her head. "And that's classified information."
"Your secret's safe with me." Her eyes are dark with desire and something warmer. Trust. "All your secrets are safe with me."
The words hit deeper than they should. I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. She responds with equal intensity, legs wrapping around my hips, pulling me closer.
We kiss until we're both breathless. Until the slow exploration becomes urgent need. I settle between her thighs and she's ready, welcoming me. I push inside and we both go still, savoring the connection. The intimacy of being joined like this.
"Look at me," she says.
I do. Her eyes are dark with desire and something deeper. Something that looks like hope.
"I want this," she says. "I want you. No matter what comes next, I'm choosing you, Rhys Blackwater."
The words break open the armor around my heart. I move, slow and deep, watching her face. Watching pleasure build in her expression. Feeling her body respond to mine. We fit together like we were designed for this. For each other.
