I’ve never had anything so precious. And never wanted anything more.
32
Twyla
“Put me down!” I yell again, laughing like a kid.
Zion tightens his hold and snarls, “Mine,” like a lion with a fresh kill. Or, I don’t know, a six-year-old with a new toy.
“You’re acting like an ass,” I yell at him from where he’s got me slung over his shoulders. “Put me down!”
“Yeah? Well you’re…” He cranes his neck so his eyes meet mine and whatever he sees makes him change tacks. “Only with you, Twy. I’m only like this with you.”
“Oh, I’m so honored,” I say in a high, fake voice. But really, I kind of am? Not honored, exactly, but sort of…proud? Is that weird? Yes. Yes, clearly it is, but when I think of it, as I grip the basket in one hand and rub the thick muscle along his shoulder with the other, I really do enjoy feeling like I’m his prey. I mean, along with most everything we did today, this works for me. A lot.
By the time we make it to the top of a long, steady rise, he’s out of breath.
I twist in his hold. “Come on. Seriously. I can walk barefoot.”
“No.” He slaps my ass and I wriggle harder. “I’m carrying you home. It’s a…a rite of passage or something.”
“How much farther is it?” I ask, struggling in earnest to get out. I swear the creatures in the woods around us ramp up, too, like we’re in sync and then, like the whole world’s in on it, thunder rumbles. “I’m hungry, it’s about to storm, and—”
“And we’ve got kissing to do. Lots of kissing.”
Oh, yes. I want that.
My breath’s shuddering. My entire body’s trembling, despite the heat, the humidity, the closeness of our bodies. Every piece of me, every cell or fiber is shaking with excitement.
Our last kiss wasn’t nearly enough, barely a kiss, even and somehow still the most passionate thing I’ve experienced in my life.
It occurs to me, as he pounds up the path leading between empty craft stalls, that I’ve never felt this way with another human being.
This week alone, I’ve been through pretty much every emotion with Zion: anger and jealousy and hurt.So much hurt. Excitement and anticipation and tenderness and this other thing. This deep pulsing thing that I’ve never felt. Not once, despite a life I’d say has been pretty well-lived.
It’shim. Zion Mason. The only human alive who’s capable of turning me into a writhing, hissing monster one minute, and a slave to desire the next. As if to underscore my feelings, the sky rumbles, low, but close, the wind sending the entire world into turmoil.
“Let me go.”
“No.” The refusal’s final, solid. I crane my neck and arch my entire body for a glimpse at his smug expression.
Our eyes meet. “Do I have to safe word you right now?”
With an irritated sigh, he shifts my weight to his front with annoying ease and slowly releases me, sliding my front down his with an erotic, languorous friction that directly contrasts with the wild, frenzied storm brewing all around us. I’ve got to force myself not to react, because if I do, we’ll end up doing it right here and then we’ll definitely get caught in the rain. Probably get brained by a falling branch. Also, our cheese plate will get soaked and I really want that cheese.
He grabs my hand and we set off just as the sky above flashes bright, the lightning close enough to raise the hair on my arms.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” I snort. “I’m passably pretty, but beautiful, I am not.”
He stops and turns me toward him and, even in the dark, I can see that he’s unhappy. “Pretty? Are you kidding?” He makes an ugly scratching sound, low in his throat, echoed by another rumble of thunder. “You’ll never be pretty, Twyla.”
“Wow.” I blink, gobsmacked. “That’s not very—”
“Pretty’snothing. What’s pretty?” He’s close now. His face inches from mine. All thoughts of racing for shelter are gone. “Pretty’s forgettable. Easy.”
I wait, breath held. The sky lights up, the storm so close, I see the jagged imprint out of the corner of my eye.
