His expression softens as he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles. "Next time, I promise."
Then he's gone, disappearing through the door with one last lingering look over his shoulder. I watch him go, already counting the seconds until I can drag him back into this nest.
The door opens again before I can spiral too far into anticipatory frustration.
Atticus fills the doorway, dark hair sleep-mussed and green eyes already heated with intent.
"Heard you were asking for me."
Fucking finally.
I don't waste time on words.
I throw back the blanket and lunge for him, grabbing fistfuls of his soft henley and yanking him toward the bed. He laughs—this low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine—but lets himself be pulled, knees hitting the edge of the mattress.
"Someone's eager."
"Someone's been waiting for you to get your ass in here for twenty minutes." I'm already working at the hem of his shirt, shoving it upward to reveal the lean muscle underneath. "Mason wouldn't stay."
"Mason follows the rules." Atticus catches my wrists, stilling my frantic movements. His green eyes search my face, suddenly serious despite the heat building in them. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm going to combust if you don't touch me in the next thirty seconds."
"Phoenix." His voice drops, taking on that particular velvet quality that always makes my spine melt. "I'm serious. First wave?"
I force myself to take a breath. To actually assess what's happening in my body instead of just reacting to it.
The heat sits low in my belly, a warm weight that's steadily growing heavier. My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending hyperaware of the rough cotton of his shirt against my palms, the cool air from the vent brushing my bare shoulders, the faint rasp of his five o'clock shadow as he tilts his face toward mine.
"Building," I admit. "Not cresting yet. But close."
"Good." He releases my wrists and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. "Then we have time to do this properly."
The sight of him—all golden-brown skin and defined abs and the trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband—makes my mouth go dry. I've seen him naked dozens of times now, but it never stops hitting me like a punch to the solar plexus.
"Properly?" My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
"Properly." He crawls onto the bed, forcing me backward into the nest of pillows and blankets. His body brackets mine, knees on either side of my hips, arms braced beside my shoulders. "I've been thinking about this for weeks."
"Thinking about what?"
"About making you feel so good you forget your own name." He dips his head, mouth finding the sensitive spot below my ear that always makes me shiver. "About taking you apart piece by piece and putting you back together."
I arch into his touch, hands sliding up his bare back. "Then stop talking and start doing."
His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Impatient."
"Always." I dig my nails into his shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make a point. "It's part of my charm."
"It really is."
His mouth traces a path down my neck, pausing at the spot where my pulse hammers against my skin. I feel his tongue tracethe faded mark of his last bite—the one that's nearly invisible now after weeks of healing—and my whole body jolts.
"Atticus—"
"Shh." His hand slides down my side, over the curve of my hip, along the outside of my thigh. "I've got you."
The first brush of his fingers between my legs makes me gasp. I'm already wet—have been since I woke up, since the heat started building in earnest—and his touch glides through the slickness with ease.
