Robbie reached up with thick fingers and, with surprising dexterity, undid the buttons of my shirt, opening it and laying me bare to his eyes.
‘In ogre culture,’ he said, ‘our scars are marks of pride. Of strength. We do not use healing potions. Every cut upon our skin becomes a mark of our trials and our continued survival.’ He leaned down and kissed a ragged scar across my ribs.
‘No,’ he said, whispering against my skin, ‘your scars don’t bother me. They enthral me. What a strong mate I have, to have been through so much and still be so fierce.’ He lowered his head again, and he kissed along a scar puckered across my collarbone.
Robbie’s body temperature seemed higher than mine, and every kiss scorched along my skin in the best way possible.
He was holding me so gently, so reverently, yet it only served to remind me of a darker past, when I wanted to be swallowed bythe present. ‘Robbie, I’m not made of glass. You won’t break me. Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.’
‘Not fragile,’ he murmured, ‘but precious.’
Still, something in his expression shifted. He bent his head again and kissed me, and this time he let his passion burn hungrily. He kissed me fiercely, possessively, and I moaned low as he stoked the fire within me.
‘You promised to pull some “oh my Gods” from me once,’ I murmured.
‘That I did,’ he said with a wolfish smile, reaching for the top snap of my waistband.
And he proceeded to do exactly that.
Chapter Nine
Later that night Robbie and I found our way to bed and collapsed into thoroughly satisfied sleep. No sex yet, so technically it was 698 days and counting, but the earth-shattering orgasm had taken the edge off, and I slept like a log bundled up in his arms.
I awoke to the unwelcome blare of my alarm and stretched out to reach for Robbie before remembering he’d left in the pre-dawn darkness. I forgave him, though, as he had kissed me goodbye so nicely, allowing me to tumble right back into sleep.
I looked around for Loki instead and was pleasantly surprised to see that he must already be up and about too.
I showered and dressed, then went to find my caladrius.
He was in the kitchen, hopping about on the counter, looking impatient. ‘Pigdog! Feed me!’
Relief swamped me so strongly I barely managed to keep it from my face. ‘You feeling better then, you greedy little bird?’
‘Not bird. Caladrius!’
‘Same thing.’
He made a derisive sound. ‘Like calling unicorn horse.’ He blew a raspberry, and the last hard lump of my anxiety melted away. He was okay. He had energy enough to sass me; he really was going to be okay. Warmth and quiet affection slid through me. And because I was bad at showing it, I pushed that feeling down our nascent bond to him.
He flew to me, landed on my shoulder and buried his little head against my neck. His joy that I cared was so raw – he was so fucking grateful to be loved – that tears instantly filled my eyes. Speech was stolen from me by the sudden thickness in my throat, and I reached up to stroke his soft feathers. They felt fuller, more vibrant, healthier.
We stayed like that, both giving and receiving comfort until a very distinct pang of hunger travelled down our bond. I laughed. ‘Hungry bud?’
‘Starving!’
‘Then let’s feed my little beast. You want to try tuna for a change?’ I asked.
‘Fish?’
‘Yeah.’
He gave the sideways hop he did when uncertain.
‘Try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll give you ham anyway.’
He bobbed his head in a nod and hopped off my shoulder to sit on the countertop. I opened a can of tuna and forked some onto a side plate for him. He attacked it ravenously, trilling happily between bites.
Yup. He liked tuna all right.
