“Okay, I know not many people would agree with me right now,” I concede, “given my circumstances. But I get to be with you. All of you.”
Thorne hesitates for a fraction of a moment and then reaches across and covers my hand with his – the simplest of movements, the simplest gesture of affection – and yet it has butterflies fluttering in my stomach and my magic buzzing in my blood. A touch from Thorne feels like such a gift, and I think, even if by some luck of fate I live to one hundred, I could never get bored of this. It will never seem old. Each time he touches me will feel like a miracle all over again.
For a moment we simply stare into each other’s eyes and I’m amazed all over again at how damn handsome the man is. I could spend a lifetime just gazing at his face, noticing the strange array of dark colors that swirl in his eyes.
I curl my fingers around his and then I stand, dragging him up after me.
“You’ve hardly touched your food,” he says as the others fall silent.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, “but I could really do with a shower.”
Not letting go of his hand, I walk toward the doorway, the other three watching us as we go. His gaze darkens as he follows me up the stairs, his hand still tight in mine, and I swear I can hear his heart thumping.
I don’t go all the way up to the room on the top floor – my room. I stop outside Thorne’s bedroom, pushing open the door and pulling him inside after me. I haven’t been in here since that time after the trial when I’d rescued him from his own shadows. But I don’t stop in the bedroom; I pull him right through to the bathroom, clicking my fingers so the dim light springs on as we enter.
Inside, I spin to face him.
“No more waiting, Thorne. I want to go all the way.”
“Now?” he asks me.
“Yes.” I giggle, my nerves getting the better of me. “Only not quite yet. I really do need a shower.”
His shoulders heave, his nostrils flare, those eyes are so dark now and swirling with passion. He simply nods.
I go to take the hem of my sweater, but he brushes my hands away and takes the hem himself, lifting the item slowly over my head so that I feel the fabric brush against my skin. He tosses the sweater to one side and then draws my shirt off too. He growls when he catches sight of my bra and my breasts, crumpling the shirt in his hands and simply staring at me.
He’s seen it before – heck, he’s even touched me there now – but it’s the tension in the air, tight between us, the anticipation of knowing what’s to come.
He takes a steady inhale.
“Okay?” I ask him.
“More than okay.” He growls, pulling me closer. I can feel his shadows straining to break free, but there’s not even a hint he’ll lose control.
He sweeps my hair away from my shoulder, and then his hands are at the waistband of my pants, pushing them down over my hips, down my legs, until I’m kicking them away.
“Wow,” he says when he looks at me standing there in my underwear, a lacy pink set, another of Dray’s buys.
“You’re still wearing an awful lot of clothes, Thorne,” I point out, which seems especially cruel, seeing as I haven’t got to touch him yet.
He exhales, shaking his head, and I find the hem of his shirt and pull it up over his head, letting my hands trail down afterward – over his strong shoulders, the muscles in his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. He’s all hard, compact muscle, and I realize it isn’t just his magic that’s strong – the whole of the man is too.
I shiver with desire, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his flies, yanking his pants down his thighs. He toes off his socks, and now we’re both in our underwear.
“It’s so good to touch you,” I say, letting my hot hands roam all over his body. His skin is smooth. And maybe my shifter mate is rubbing off on me, because I have the strangest desire to drag my tongue up his chest, to drag it all over him and taste him.
The idea is simply too irresistible, and I step even closer, rising up on my toes and kissing his shoulder. He tastes masculine, a little salty, just like Thorne should taste.
I kiss him right along his shoulder to the crook of his neck, wrapping my arms around him, stroking my fingers through his short hair. He simply stands there, breathing hard, his pulse racing against my skin, and I realize he’s not touching me back.
I rock back down onto my feet and peer up at him.
“You’re not touching me,” I say.
“Can I?” he asks me.
I smile up at this wonderful man, so terrifying to so many people and yet so sweet, so tender, so kind to me.
