“Yes.” After a pause during which they both drank, she elaborated. “It’s better. Not perfect, but better.”
“Good.” Why was this so awkward? It shouldn’t be awkward, it should be—
At the sink, she reached up for a glass—a jam jar—and filled it with water. She slugged it back and splashed her face.
Only then did he take in the details of her—not their disgusting surroundings or his disgusting thoughts, but her. She looked…good. Tall and full, her body different in clothing that was her size. Blue jeans that fit her. A shirt that flowed from her strong, slender shoulders, down over breasts that were lush and full and suspended. A bra, which both delighted and dismayed him. The thought of fancy, frilly lingerie on this woman was enough to heat his blood.
He pictured men seeing her in the lingerie. Other men, many men. Like that barman downstairs, whose throat he’d rip out, whose fucking heart he’d tear into pieces, whose stupid, lascivious grin he’d—
Her hands grasped his face, and she kissed him, hard.
“I missed you, too,” she whispered in his mouth, and Christ, he couldn’t stop himself from crushing her with his arms, pulling her in tight and seeking out the hollow of her neck, that place where the smell was purely her. Even with the scents of the bar layered over top and odors of cooking, he found her there and drew her in. Home. She felt like home.
Her lips went to his again and gave him the kiss he’d been missing for so long, sensation, yes, but so full of emotion, he thought he’d drown in it. Christ, what had he done before her?
Her mouth was hot and hungry, the sounds she made even better.
“Take this off,” she whispered, plucking at the coat he still wore. Hurriedly, he removed it and then, at her urging, his shirt.
Everything stopped when she put her head to his chest—an echo of what she’d done the week before in his cabin—and breathed. Just breathed.
“What are you doing,amour?”
“Listening,” she whispered. “Just listening.”
“There’s nothing there.”
She exhaled loudly and shook her head from side to side.
“You have no idea, do you, Luc?” she asked, finally pulling back to look him in the eye, her face…tragic, maybe, which he hated. “No idea.”
“About what?” he asked, truly puzzled.
“Your heart, Luc. You have no idea how beautiful it is.”
All he could do was watch her, this woman who didn’t realize she’d stolen it right out from inside him.
* * *
Abby meant to tell him what she planned. But then she’d seen his face—that sweet, scarred face—and she couldn’t help but kiss him. After that, his shock had been so palpable, and she’d known in this instinctive sort of way that he was shocked at her desire and her emotion. He was shocked by how much she wanted him.
It made her want him so hard she couldn’t stop touching him, caressing him. Good Lord, if she could, she’d consume every inch of him.
Which gave her an idea.
The impact of her body against his was jarring. It rattled her foundations. It probably jolted the dancers downstairs in the bar. Her hand in his hair, yanking his head closer, his face near hers, their teeth clashing too hard. His lips were torture; he could kill her with that tongue, and oh no, his smell. His smell was torment.Excruciatingly perfect.
She’d sell her soul for that smell. To the devil. She’d let Isaiah and his minions burn every inch of her. Something purely animal escaped her mouth. No containing it, but that was fine. Fine when he took it, ate it up, gave her a noise of his own.
Goodness, where was this coming from? The need and the…greed? Where had she kept it all these years, up until she’d met this man? It was old and deep and strong, an overflowing well.
Luc’s shoulders were hot under her hands. Her fingers scrabbled at his waist, tore at it until he helped her get whatever it was off, down, down, landing at their feet with the clunk of keys.
Bless me, this body.
She glanced down to see his underwear—navy-blue shorts—and the need to consume him swelled anew.
I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t.
