“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Her cheeks go pink.
I like it too much.
“Blue eyes,” I tell her. “Smart mouth. Freckles I want to taste. Curves that make a man stupid. You’re beautiful, Talia.”
For once, she doesn’t have a comeback.
I kiss her before she finds one.
Then her hands go to my cut, tugging, impatient. My little hellcat wants skin. I shrug out of the leather and set it within reach. Then I drag my shirt over my head.
Her gaze drops.
Scars. Ink. Old damage. Things I don’t explain.
I wait for pity.
She gives me hunger.
Her hand presses flat to my chest, right over my heart.
“Okay?” she asks.
Like she has the right to worry about me while she’s the one under me, soft and shaken and brave enough to put her hands on all the ugly parts.
I nod once.
She leans up and kisses a scar near my ribs.
Soft.
Too soft.
It hits harder than it should.
I come back down over her, mouth on hers, rougher now. She takes it. Gives it back. Her nails bite my shoulders, and I damn near lose what’s left of my mind.
I get her shirt up, then off. Pause long enough for her eyes to meet mine.
“Still with me?”
She answers by pulling me down.
Good enough.
I kiss every inch she gives me. Neck. Shoulder. The swell of her breasts above her bra. She gasps, then clamps her mouth shut.
“No,” I growl.
Her eyes open.
“Let me hear you.”
“We’re in a motel.”
