I push up onto one elbow and kiss my way down his throat because it feels easier than talking. His skin is warm and tastes faintly of salt and smoke. He makes a low sound when I mouth over the place where neck becomes shoulder.
My pulse jumps.
I kiss lower.
Across his collarbone.
Over the hard plane of his chest.
His body is beautiful in a way that almost makes me angry. Broad and thick and carved up just enough to tell stories I do not know yet. There is a scar near his shoulder, pale under my mouth. Then another lower down, close to his ribs.
I stop and trace one lightly with my fingertips.
His hand tightens in my hair.
“What happened there?” I ask.
“Another day.”
His voice says enough. Flat. Final.
I nod and do not push.
Instead I kiss the scar softly.
That changes his breathing.
A sharp little edge of confidence slips into me at the sound.
I kiss lower.
His chest.
His stomach.
The hard ridges there jumping once when my mouth brushes over them. My hand follows, palm sliding down over warm skin and tight muscle, learning him by touch while my courage shakes and somehow holds.
By the time I reach lower, my heart is hammering so hard I feel lightheaded.
He lifts his head enough to look down at me.
“Julie.”
There is warning in it.
A lot of heat too.
I glance up at him through my lashes, my hand resting low on his stomach now, close enough to feel the tension in him.
“You said I’m yours now,” I murmur against his skin.
His whole body goes still.
Then his eyes darken until they almost do not look pale at all.
“Angel,” he says roughly, “you keep talking like that and I’m gonna flip you over and start all over again.”
The threat should probably stop me.
