Page 43 of Dragon’s Rogue

“That’s not much time.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “We thought the Dragonfly of Morocco might be the Dragonfly Seal, and if it was, we needed it now. Thus the breaking and entering of your house.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah. You said you weren’t sorry about that.”

“I’m not. If it meant that we could keep Vyrkos from busting out of Mount Hood and killing a couple million people, I’d commit bigger crimes than that.”

Blaze understood that. She’d trained with dark sorcerers, learned spells she hoped to never have to use. Anything to keep Silas from taking the idol back.

“And I’m not sorry for the other reason, too. Because the search brought me to you.” He ran his finger lightly up the inside her forearm. Her skin quivered at his touch. “The woman of my dreams.”

Blaze started losing her breath again. “The woman from your dreams,” she managed. “There’s a difference.”

“Not to me.” He ran his finger up her forearm again, watching her reaction. “Especially if you knew what I dreamed about.”

She did know what he dreamed about. She’d seen it in her mind when he kissed her. And it was hot.

“They were dreams,” she said breathlessly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

But that was a lie. She felt like they did know each other. The way his eyes seemed both familiar and strange, and the look of desire and longing in them did too. Like she’d seen that look so many times, and it still felt new every time, still could pull the breath from her lungs and make her pulse pound.

The way he felt dangerous, and yet safe. The way she yearned to relax in his warmth and let him hold and protect her.

“No?” he said. His voice was soft, his fingers warm as they stroked her arm. “I know how your eyes look when you’re happy, and the way they look when you’re sad. I know how your face lights up with joy when you smile from your heart.”

His fingers skimmed her face, the ghost of a touch. “Someday, I want to see that smile for real. I want to see the joy in your face.”

He touched her lips, gently. “I know the sound of your laughter, the touch of your hand, the warmth of your skin.”

He slid closer to her, and moved his hand slowly to the hollow of her right shoulder. “You have a beauty mark right… there.”

He touched it on the outside of her shirt, and still she shivered as if he were touching bare skin. Slowly, he slid the scoop neck of her t-shirt away, exposing her shoulder. He smiled when he saw the mole right where he’d said it would be, where he couldn’t possibly know it was.

He bent his head and kissed it. His lips were soft and warm and sent little flames across her collarbone and down into her belly.

Memories of a hundred more kisses tumbled through her mind, and her stomach fluttered. This was impossible. He couldn’t know her from his dreams.

But somehow he did.

“And you have another beauty mark… here.”

This time, the fingers of his left hand moved to her belly, a few inches above her left hip. He slid his fingers across the hem of her t-shirt, grazing the skin between it and the top of her low-slung jeans. Blaze closed her eyes, reveling in the heat of his touch, holding her breath, waiting for more.

He slid his fingers an inch higher, raising the hem of her shirt until her other mole was exposed.

He slid off the couch onto his knees and dipped his head, kissing that place softly as well. Blaze melted, her hands sliding across his shoulders to cradle the back of his head.

The touch of his lips was like a drug. Her whole body yearned for him, like a flower turning toward the sun. He continued to kiss her belly, lips feather-light, fingers skimming the top of her jeans.

Blaze heard herself make a soft sound of surrender. She’d been strong for so long; she’d been alone for so long. Holding everyone at arm’s length, not daring to get close to anyone.

She couldn’t trust anyone, and she couldn’t bring them into her realm of danger.

No one could understand what she was going through, what it meant to have a mission like hers.

No one, maybe, but this man. Like her, he’d dedicated himself to something that wasn’t really his fight. To doing what was right, even if it cost him everything.

And she hadn’t been able to help. Sadness swept through her, and she slid her fingers through his hair, stroking, pulling him closer.