A grumpy moan vibrates from her, and she smooches her face into the side of my neck. “It’s big,” she mumbles, the words little more than an exhalation. “Like you.”
Her warm breath teases my skin, and my heart thumps harder. Other parts of my body decideharderis the way to go as well.
She taps my cheek again. Well, tries. She misses twice and taps the air. “I’d really like to kiss?—”
And once again, she falls silent and limp.
Fuck.
Chapter Four
Waverly
Warm, muted interior lights shouldn’t hurt my eyes so much. And yet here we are.
Wincing, I flick a throbbing look at the vertical world swimming into focus, recognize nothing, and lever myself upright.
A neat, tidy, and utterly unfamiliar living room surrounds me, parts of it shadowed by the darkening sky beyond the windows, but somehow still inviting. I run a slow look over it all—the sofa I’m sitting on, an armchair, a rocking chair that looks handmade, and a massive plasma TV with a gaming console tucked in the unit underneath it. Framed photographs of panoramic seascapes and landscapes hang on the walls, and a large bookshelf demands attention beside me, its shelves stuffed with books. I recognize some titles: Stephen King’sIT, Tolkien’sLord of the Ringstrilogy, a slew of Jack Reacher books. Some seem very firefighter specific, and some look older than dirt. Onein particular catches my eye, and, wincing again, I shove myself from the sofa and cross to it.
I tilt my head to the side and read the title, brushing my fingers over the creased spine.
Historia Animalium.
“Huh,” I mutter. “Why the hell does a firefighter have a book first published in the 1500s on animals?”
“My mum was a vet,” a deep, familiar voice rumbles behind me.
I squeal and spin around. And then stagger sideways as my head continues to spin after I stop.
The man who helped me/kidnapped me—I’m not sure which yet—destroys the space between the living room door and the bookshelf in four massive strides and closes a firm but gentle hand around my upper arm, his eyes locking on mine. “I’ve got you.”
The declaration caresses my senses a heartbeat before a memory smashes into me. Heat prickles over my skin, and a weird fluttering begins deep in my stomach. Staring at him, my pulse pounds in my ears.
Did I… Did I tell him I wanted to kiss him? Oh God, did I tell him I wanted to fuck?—
I jolt back a step. My butt smacks into the bookshelf, and his hand whips out and snatches a falling book just before it strikes my head.
“Whoa,” I whisper, gaping up at him. My almost unconscious self had it right. This guy would be amazing to?—
“Maybe I should give you my spare helmet.” A smile tugs at his lips as he returns the book to the top shelf. The move brings his upper body closer to me. I draw in a deep, slow breath. He smells of soap, clean clothes, and subtle deodorant. I feather my fingertips along the side of his wide, muscled neck before I can stop myself.
He becomes still, his stare locking on mine, his hand braced against the top shelf. He towers over me, his heat radiating into me.
With a swift breath, I jerk my hand back and look away. “Sorry. I thought I saw a mosquito.”
Liar.
“Hmm,” he murmurs without lowering his arm. Holding me imprisoned with his gaze, he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my temple. “How is your head?”
Full of images of you making love to me…
“Woozy,” I reply on a scratchy breath. I swallow, clear my throat, and try again. “What hit me?”
Levering himself from the bookshelf, he points across the room at the small lamp table next to the armchair. On it sits my camera.
My eyebrows shoot up, and I hurry over to it. There’s not a scratch on it. I turn it on and check the memory. The last shot on there is a blur of browns and greens. The shot beforethatis a clear and sharp image of half the Giant Dragonfly flying out of the frame.
“You’re an incredible photographer,” he states, and my ears—andmy body—tell me he’s making his way in my direction. “Some of the wildlife shots you have on there?—”
