No finesse. Just pure want.
Her hands dragged down his bare chest, trembling slightly as they pressed against scarred skin. He broke the kiss only to drop another at the corner of her mouth. Then her cheek. Her jaw. The column of her neck, then the dip of her collarbone like each part of her held a secret he needed to learn. He curled a lock of hair around his finger and said hoarsely, “What the devil did you do to me?”
A shaky breath left her, one that was half-laugh. “I didn’t mean to do any—”
“You don’t need to mean it to do it.”
She tilted her face up to his again, her lips a whisper from his. “Then kiss me again.”
He pulled back a fraction to study her. Her eyes were dazed. Her lips swollen. Well, damnation.
He was lost.
So he kissed her again. This time slower.
One of her hands drifted to his shoulder, the pads of her fingers brushing the raised ridges of a scar. He hissed, the rush of being touched by her hands intoxicating. Being touchedsoftly.
He didn’t know softness.
But gods, he wanted to know.
She leaned into him to deepen the kiss, and he lost himself again—her taste, her scent, the answering willingness. Christ, he kissed her like he could convince himself he deserved her. And she kissed him like he already did.
Time stopped.
Or maybe time stretched.
He didn’t know. Didn’t care.
His mouth moved over hers again and again, until it was no longer just his hands memorizing her—but everything. His soul. His breath. His bones.
Her name—Calliope—lodged in his throat like a prayer.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing across her. His other hand slid down to hers, gently lacing their fingers together.
Her breath hitched. “Your hands . . .”
“You’ve seen the worst of me,” he said softly, reluctantly leaving her lips to press his forehead to hers.
She didn’t answer with words. She leaned in and brushed her lips over his again. Soft. Certain.
“You’ve commandeered my mind,” he said against her mouth. “What the hell do I do?”
She laughed. “To repeat my earlier sentiment: You kiss me again,” she whispered urgently, “and you don’t stop unless I do.”
So bloody bold. “Christ, Calliope.”
He gathered her closer but didn’t dare touch anywhere below her shoulders. This wasn’t about lust. It was abouttouch.
Desperate. Aching. Touch.
But everything else, her hair, her face, the fluttering pulse at her throat, he worshipped. He’d never been more terrified. And never more alive. It burned his soul—the touch of her fingers on his skin. His on hers.
Slowly, she broke away from his lips.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished a fight, but he didn’t step away from her. Didn’t tell her to leave again. He just stood there.Bare-chested. Bare-souled. Her hands touching both.
She stared up at him. “Is it too late to say I should go?”
