I came again with a severe spasm, a noise crying from my gut, my body seizing.
My eyesight went dark.
“Fucking hell, princess,” his husky voice rumbled, stirring me back to consciousness. I had no idea how long I passed out. It could have been seconds or minutes. Time didn’t seem to matter or really make sense anymore.
His mouth skated up the back of my neck. I loved the weight of him on me, our skin sticky with blood, sweat, cuts, and bruises.
It felt like heaven.
I twisted my neck to peer back at him. His regard hadn’trelinquished any of the hunger. If anything, I saw more eagerness in his eyes. Grabbing my chin, he kissed me deeply.
Warwick was never sweet or gentle, but this felt different from all the others, no question in it. No wondering what was between us. The link joining us had fully weaved and tangled together. There would be no untying it, no breaking it.
Not that we had a clue what it meant or what I was, but for the moment... I was home.
Breaking the kiss, he moved off me. I grumbled at the loss, the emptiness I felt when he slid out of me, climbing to his feet.
Grabbing the dresser, he pulled himself out of the wreckage. His fingers gripped the wood, his legs dipping underneath him, not quite ready to stand.
Warwick huffed out a dark chuckle. “Like a fucking newborn.” His hand shook, swiping up the intact liquor bottle from the floor and dropping into the wingback chair. He was naked, beat up, dirty, dangerous, enigmatic, and sexy as hell—he took my breath away.
Downing a huge swallow, he let out a raspy sound before holding it out for me.
I twisted onto my side, tucking a sheet around me as I grabbed the bottle from his hand. Every muscle ached, every bone throbbed; my brain and body were melted butter. At the same time, I never felt more alive or powerful. Like liquid steel filled my veins.
Gulping back a swig, the burn lit a match to my already scorched insides. I jiggled my head, choking down the harsh liquid. Handing it back to him, I watched him take another drink.
The connection joining us had deepened. I could feel the strands moving and coiling between us, like live wire. As if it was another sense I procured, along with sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound. It had always been there, but it was no longer in the background. It was present and alive.
I felt with clarity the wall he was trying to put up to distance himself from the consuming sensation. This was even more concentrated than our first time in Prague. I understood why he wanted to. I desired to do the same. Not just because it was intense, but because it was overwhelminglynormal.
To people like us, especially him, something so intimate was not ordinary or even wanted.
“We really made a mess.” I licked my lips, tasting the remnants ofwhiskey and him, my eyes moving around. The bedframe was in pieces. A mirror, water bowl, and picture were shattered. A lamp lay broken, clothes scattered. This room was a debris field. We obliterated it.
“Kitty is going to be so pissed at you.”
He didn’t respond, swallowing down more liquor, his gaze on the wall.
More seconds passed.
“She might actually kick you out this time.”
“Stop the small talk, princess,” he grumbled, taking another shot, holding it out to me. “What the fuck was that?”
I hesitated with my response, only coming up with one. “Us.” I shrugged, snatching the bottle from him and taking a drink. I could think of no other answer to what kept binding us tighter together. The visions, the spirits congregating near us, the fact we could slip into each other and visit the past.
“Us,” he huffed out his nose, not really a question. His head tipped back into the chair, lost in thought.
We had this connection binding us, but I realized how little I really knew about him. I knew how he died, about his sister and nephew, that his mother had been a prostitute, and he had grown up in a whorehouse. Oh shit. Shame colored my cheeks. My harsh attitude to Rosie was also an insult to his mother.
My fingers plucked at a hole in the threadbare sheet.
“What I said earlier... I didn’t mean it.” I cleared my throat. “I was angry. Hurt. I was wrong.”
“Brexley Kovacs admitting to being wrong?” He swigged the brown liquor.
My lips lifted. “To you? No, you deserve my wrath, asshole.” He snorted at my reply. “But to her... yes.”
