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“Well, we don’t have to do it all tonight.”
I grin.
“A disappointing limitation.”
She laughs.
Then presses her forehead against mine.
“There’s no rush, Morpheus.”
I look at her.
Really look at her.
The woman who restored my broken face.
Who taught me how to drink coffee.
Who introduced me to towels, television, and the extraordinary concept of being loved without being worshipped.
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Are you certain?”
“About what?”
“Us.”
Her expression softens.
“Completely.”
I swallow.
“Then tell me what you want.”
She smiles.
“You.”
“That much I’d gathered.”
“Not just your body, you ridiculous man.”
I grin.
“A tragic oversight.”
She laughs.
“I want all of you.”
Something inside my chest shifts.
For three thousand years, I’ve been desired as a god.
Worshipped.
