“What did you see out there?” he asks quietly. His breath is minty, and it mingles with mine.
My heart jumps.
I think of the shadow.
He couldn’t know though, could he?
“Nothing,” I answer him with a lie.
His fingers tighten in my hair. It isn’t painful, but almost. “Nothing?”
I frown at him in the dark room. His pulse is oddly calm, but his gaze is intense. “What do you do?” I curve my nails against his flesh and feel his heartbeat jump. “Every day, what is it you call work?”
He tightens his hold on my waist.
There is little space between us.
He’s hard muscle and the scent of soap and leather and mint and he’s holding me in a way that feels like he wouldn’t let go.
“You wouldn’t want to know. It doesn’t matter, does it, Sloane? When you go to Scotland and you move to the sea, I’ll be the faintest memory.”
I smile as my chest aches. “You rhymed,” I tell him softly.
His nose brushes mine and his eyes flutter closed for one exhale. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
My throat is tight as he stares at me again, and he doesn’t look sorry. “For what?” My eyes feel pressure and it’s like I’m choking on the question but I couldn’t explain why.
Suddenly, he shifts his hold from my hair to my throat, squeezing tight as he pulls my mouth to his.
Our lips come together, a dance of viciousness. I have both arms around his neck now as I press to my tiptoes and arch my back, our bodies formed together. He’s so hard and all I want is him inside me, fucking me so deep I can’t breathe let alone scream. His tongue loops around mine, then he’s sucking on it, and I moan into his mouth. A cocky breath of laughter leaves his lips and he tightens his hold on my throat to the point I think I might black out, the way my closed eyes swim with gray, but I don’t want him to stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
Maybe we figure it out.
Maybe we don’t.
Either way, I want tonight.
His teeth dig into my bottom lip and pull, and I feel him grow harder. I dig my nails into the back of his neck and he groans, then shifts his hold to my jaw, his strong fingers clawed into my mouth as he presses tight and makes my lips part.
He pulls back, his temple to mine, his eyes closed.
“What are you sorry for?” I speak against his lips. I haven’t forgotten.
His brows pull together.
His breath twirls on my stinging mouth.
“What the fuck are you sorry for, Storm?” I’m nearly yelling. I can’t say why, but something is wrong.
It’s the way he looks.
An angel fallen.
For soon expect to feel his thunder on thy head.FromParadise Lost,the verse comes to me unbidden. Milton was not a Romantic poet himself, but the great godfather of the movement, if there ever was one.
