His arms tighten around me, trying to keep me from sinking deeper, from going under. Despite Declan’s best efforts, I continue to sink deeper. Liquid sand sloshes around my chest like wet cement.
“While Ilovethat the magick is finally trying to communicate with me,” I gasp, sand sucking at my ribs, “we arenoton the same page right now! Use your wordsandlet me fucking go!”
The dune convulses. With a violent lurch, Declan yanks me free. We tumble backward, momentum sending us crashing through a nearby tent.
The door explodes, splinters of wood spinning as we slam through. Dust billows. We hit cool stone in a heap of limbs and grit and frantic breathing.
Beneath me, Declan groans, arms still cinched around my waist. “Well,” he pants, “that escalated quickly.”
“You think?” I wheeze.
His mouth tilts into that barely there smirk I’m starting to recognize as a hazard to my mental health. “For the record, I not only saved you, but I managed to save your purse.”
He tilts his chin in the direction of my sand-crusted purse. I try to sit up, but his arms stay very firmly around my waist, his thumbs tracing idle circles along my sides. One hand slides higher, heat trailing over my waist, the ridge of my ribs, the slope of my shoulder and arm resting against his chest. He sweeps a line of grit from my jaw, then brushes sand from my temple.
“You’ve got a little…” His voice is quiet as he continues to clean the sand from my cheek. “Everywhere.”
“I’m a mess,” I mumble, cheeks blazing for reasons unrelated to the desert heat.
His hand lingers, thumb ghosting the curve of my mouth. “No,” he whispers. “Not a mess.” His gaze drops, settles on my mouth, and stays there—heavy, hungry, pulling the air from my lungs.
My throat tightens. I swallow, and without thinking, I flick my tongue across my lips.
Declan’s body goes rigid beneath me. His chest risessharply against mine, breath catching in his chest.
I hold the moment, aware of every racing pulse in my body. Then I decide. Slowly, deliberately, I drag my tongue over my lower lip.
His fingers flex at my waist, beneath my jaw, gripping me tighter. A groan escapes him. The vibration rumbles through his chest into mine like we’re strung together.
My hands twitch on his thick shoulders, desperate to move. To chart the hard lines hidden under his soaked shirt, to memorize the muscle, the heat, the feel of him.
His palm cups my cheek, callused and hot, thumb glossing over my damp lips. My world funnels down to his touch. His breath. The thick, sparking current tethering us closer with every heartbeat.
My hips shift and suddenly I feel him. All of him. The hard press of his body against mine, sliding into place so easily, so perfectly it steals my breath. My skirt has ridden high, bunched at my waist, and the red silk panties tied at my hips may as well not exist. Every rigid line, every stuttered inhale, every inch of aching want between us burns through the thin barrier.
When his eyes finally lift from my mouth, they carry a storm—dark, unguarded, flashing with a question I don’t know how to answer.
His fingers slip into my hair, threading gently at first, then firmer, guiding me down. The space between us collapses into a single suspended heartbeat. The pause—the breathless sliver right before—feels impossibly intimate, more than any kiss I’ve ever had.
I want to fall into it.
I want to run from it.
I want to burn alive inside it.
The realization sears through me, a match dropped into oil. I shiver, and my thighs tighten around him as goosebumps race down my arms.
A cool breeze ghosts the sweat at my nape, and I shiver again.
Wait. Cool breeze? Ten minutes ago, the sun was set to broil, and now the space around us is cold as steel.
My head snaps up. “Declan.”
“Yeah?” His voice is thick, gravelly, lost in the moment.
“Do you feel that?”
“Oh yeah.” His gaze dips to my mouth again. His hand flexes at my waist as he starts to lift up, eyelids lowering.
