His heart ached with happiness for the present, with fear for the future, and all he wanted to do was—
“Take off your clothes.” She shoved at the sides of his leather jacket.
He didn’t hesitate, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it on top of the tarp.
“Shirt too.” She pulled at the bottom hem of his long-sleeved Henley.
He reached behind his head and ripped off his shirt, sending it flying toward his jacket. The warm air inside the circus ring traveled over his newly exposed skin as sweetly as Sonya’s eyes. The desire he saw in her face made his chest swell with pride.
Not that he was vain, or even particularly proud of the body his way of life had honed into a machine made for swift movement and tensile strength. But he was happy that looking at it brought her pleasure.
Reaching for the button on his jeans, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “And now for the pièce de résistance.”
An icy chill rocketed up his spine, dousing the fire in his blood. “Wait.” He stilled her busy fingers. “Slow down. I want…”
He stopped himself from saying, I want to let it get darker outside and in here so you won’t see the scar on my right hip where my birthmark used to be.
His plastic surgeon had promised no identifying marks, and he’d meant it. The nip-and-tucker had carved out the crescent moon–shaped birthmark, leaving a large, ugly, puckered scar in its place.
It was supposed to look like a burn. Anytime one of Angel’s lovers had asked him about it, that’s the story he’d told them, that he’d been pushed into a campfire as a child. But he didn’t want Sonya to ask about it. Not yet. He wanted to experience the unblemished, glorious truth of making love to her before he began the life of lies he was determined to live. Then again, was it really a lie? Everything that was Mark, everything that was him, had died. Everything but his love for her.
“You want what?” She tilted her head against the mat. Her cheeks were already pinkened by passion. Her pupils had widened to consume her irises.
“Not to rush this.” He took her wrists and pinned them above her head. “I want to go slow. So slow. I want to explore every inch of you. Taste every inch of you. Tell me you want that too.”
Her voice was husky when she said the four sweetest words he could have wished for. “I want that too.”
Chapter 20
Angel was a fine specimen of a man. No doubt about it.
At twenty-four, Mark had been big boned and tall, but coltish. Beautifully lean. By contrast, Angel was just big. Heavy muscles roped his large frame. Sonya got an unencumbered view of them when he pushed up to kneel on the edge of the mat so he could slip her shoes from her feet.
The first word that came to mind when she took in the wonder of him was built. Not that he was overgrown like a bodybuilder or anything, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on him. He was simply bone and sinew and tendon and hard-packed muscle.
The second word that swirled in her brain was smooth. Given what a tough man he was, that was a strange adjective. But his skin was tan and silky. Not a freckle or mole marred its tawny perfection, only the occasional scar that stood witness to the dangerous life he’d led.
The third word that described him was…man. He epitomized the concept. From the flare of his broad shoulders to the tapered tuck of his waist, from his heavy pectoral muscles topped with flat, brown nipples to the patch of dark, delicious hair that grew across his chest, he was all man.
Which made her remember how smooth Mark had been. Nary a hair on his chest. Only a single line of baby-fine gossamer arrowing down from his belly button. Proof of how young they’d been.
So, so young…
And speaking of happy trails, Angel’s took her eyes on a journey south as it extended down the centerline of his body and raced over the corrugated ridges of abdomen past those V-shaped lines that bracketed his hip bones and plunged beneath the waistband of his jeans. What were they called? Aphrodite’s saddle? It was something like that, and Sonya got it. Seeing those lines on a man’s body made a woman want to ride.
The fourth word that came to mind… Nope. It was gone. The word had slipped right out of her head because Angel, having finished with her shoes, ran a hand up her leg. Goose bumps followed the path of his fingers until he stopped at the button to her slacks.
“May I?”
“Now, how fair is that?” she teased him. “You want to leave your pants on, but you want to take mine off?”
“My top for your bottoms.” He toyed with her button. “Seems perfectly fair to me.”
She chuckled. Even to her own ears the sound was low and seductive. “Well, I guess I can’t argue with that. Your logic is impeccable.”
The smile flitting around his mouth was fleeting. And then? Oh, and then he undid the button, slowly pulled down the zipper, and grabbed her waistband with both hands.
