“Oh, so selfish,” she agrees, rolling her eyes. “Because getting hit over the head is the definition of selfishness.”
“Now who is being sarcastic?” Keeping my back pressed firmly against the cave wall, I finally allow myself the privilege of bowing my head.
Lydia
I know with absolute certainty that Killan is going to kiss me.
I could move away. He’s not holding on to me so tightly that I couldn’t climb off his lap should I choose to. But time slows, and the knowledge that I’m going to let him kiss me settles over me like particles of dust—softly, slowly.
What comes next is reminiscent of the tsunami. All-encompassing. Pleasure ignites my nerve endings, and it’s as if I can feel his lips on all the places he isn’t touching me. Which sounds crazy but goes to show how worked up I’ve been these last few days, mentally lusting after this man.
His lips move against mine, part nip, part kiss, and I wrap my arms around his neck so that I can press more firmly against his glorious chest. The sensation of his scales against my nipples—even through layers of fabric—is sensational. Exactly what I’ve been so desperately craving.
This could be one of my dreams, except that there’s no chance I’m going to wake up, unsated and unsatisfied.
But then it’s like a switch in my head is flipped, and I suddenly remember that Killan’s hurt. I pull back breathlessly, examining his face for signs of pain. It might be a trick of the light that his scales appear to be tinged blue, but I don’t think so. Killan’s blushing—or the Ril’os version of blushing.
I glance down, and sure enough, there’s a bulge at the crux of his legs, exactly how Briar described it. A cock pocket.
He can’t be feeling too bad, then.
Neither can I, because the part of my personality that’s ruled by my obsession with making and completing plans is demanding that I begin my exploration immediately.
But…if I’m already having wet dreams about him, when all we’ve done is kiss, imagine how chaotic my dreams are going to get once I’ve seen his real-life dick. There’ll be no exorcising Killan from my brain once I’ve felt him up.
My hand drifts down his chest, even as indecision fights inside me.
He’s sitting so still, it’s as if he’s afraid movement will scare me away. He’s probably right. I haven’t yet caught my breath. I feel…skittish. I want to wrap myself around Killan and sink back into his inexpert kisses until all my warring thoughts shutthe hell up. But I also want to jump to my feet. Pent-up energy is flowing through my veins, searching for an outlet. I could probably run a half marathon, feeling like this.
I scramble off his lap, yanking off my shoes, T-shirt, and jeans. The fabric hasn’t fully dried, and I’m fighting against it with shaking hands. The second I’m dressed in nothing more than my bra and panties, I turn my back on Killan and wade into the cold water.
It’s the perfect shock to my system, and I duck down until the water is lapping at my shoulders, my feet still firmly on the cave floor. Cold seeps into my flesh, sinking deep to my bones, and I relish the accompanying numbness, like the huge fucking idiot that I am.
“Akh…what are you doing?” Killan asks.
Running away again.“Swimming.” Something bumps against my legs, but it’s nothing more than a broken piece of stalagmite, half submerged, half floating.
“Swimming?” he repeats, sounding like he’s seriously considering the possibility that I’m insane.
Probably I am.
Briar and Harlee didn’t freak out when they developed feelings for Sorin and Roan. They weren’t consumed with the idea of returning home to the detriment of their sanity. They weren’t so haunted by their ideas of how they thought their lives should be that they fought tooth and nail against every single change—the big stuff and the small stuff.
I’m reacting to a simple kiss the same way I reacted to being abducted by aliens. One of those things shouldn’t be scary, but I’m breathing too fast, and my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.
I sink another few inches until cold water is lapping at my chin.
Killan pushes himself to his feet.
“Don’t get up,” I scold. “You need to rest.”
“In a moment,” he says, repeating what is rapidly becoming the most annoying thing anyone has ever said to me. And he can’t even say it with enough conviction to make it half believable.
If ever I needed proof that Killan hasn’t lied to me, this is it. A toddler would be able to spot the difference.
He kicks off his boots, his movements slow and measured, as if they cost him energy he doesn’t have. Then he walks into the water. When he sinks to his knees, his head and shoulders remain far above the surface.
He doesn’t come too close, just sits beyond arm’s reach, steadily watching me.
