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He reaches out and slides his hand from my shoulder, down the side of my breast, over my belly, and to my hip.
“Every inch of you is made to drive me insane,” he snarls. “If you can do me one favor, it’s to never call yourself fat again. Because you’re not. Or even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. Because you’re beautiful. You’re angelic. You’re sinfully fucking sexy. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a lady.”
I blink, tears whelming in my eyes and trying to gush down my cheeks.
No, not trying to, I am crying.
Crazily, selfishly, I’m crying happy tears over his words when there’s so much else going on.
Markus surges toward me, pulls me into him, and cradles me to his chest. I bury my face in the manly muskiness of his pectorals, letting loose the pain I’ve held in for years, gripping into his sides and feeling the rock hard surface of his muscles beneath his shirt.
Trembling, unleashing, I cry and cry until I have no more tears left to give.
“I never thought anybody would say that to me before,” I whisper.
He lifts the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe my tears away, revealing a tempting sliver of muscled skin, a V-shape of flesh leading down his pants toward his manhood.
“Well, get used to it,” he smirks. “I find it hard to envision a day I’ll stop telling you you’re beautiful.”
“I thought you were going to punch a tree or something then,” I say, giggling past the tears. “You got so angry.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs.
“Hmm?” I banter. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Shall we walk?”
“Sure, if we talk too. Deal?”
He glowers for a moment, looking like the beast he has come to be known as around town. But then his eyes settle on me and he nods shortly.
“For you, Millie,” he sighs. “Yeah, we can talk.”
I loop my arm into his, a rush of confidence comes from seemingly nowhere and barrels right into me.
It might have something to do with how he looked at me when he got angry at me calling myself the F-word, as though the very notion was absurd.
We walk through the snowscape of the forest, pine and snow and ice crunching beneath our feet, settling coolly on the back of my neck so that I shrug his weighty jacket up higher. He smooths his hand over my shoulder and pulls me close to him, walking, sinking into each other as though any moment we could just disappear into our own private world.
“Whoah,” I murmur when the trees break and open onto a clearing, Crystal Lake living up to its name as it blinks in the sunlight.
“Whoah is damn right,” Markus says.
Trees border it on all sides, so that it seems like a secret, as though the only way to find your here is by accident.
“I’ve heard people talk about Crystal Lake, but I’ve never actually been here,” I murmur, as we descend the short decline and stop at the edge. “It’s beautiful.”
I turn to face Markus, his forest colored eyes fixated on the winking icy light, as though he’s seeing things that I couldn’t even guess at.
“Where are you, Markus?” I ask.
He smirks tightly, and then grabs me and spins me closer to him, a dancer’s pirouette that has me feeling crazily graceful.
Our bodies crash together and he leans down, claiming my lips with his, rough and just-him, our tongues magnetized to each other, to taste and feel the tingling points of pleasure dancing up and down my mouth.
“Right here,” he snarls.
I place my hand on his chest, panting, my breath causing puffs of fog to rise into the air. “Okay, smarty pants. What were you thinking about? You know, you still haven’t told me why you went all werewolf at the F-word.”
“Maybe it’s as simple as me not wanting you to think that—ever. Because it’s not fucking true.”
“Hmm,” I say, teasing him.
He chuckles grimly and his hands snake up my sides, finding my ticklish spots.
I mock glare at him. “Don’t you dare,” I tell him.
“Or what?”
“Or—or I’ll never kiss you again,” I banter, knowing it’s not true, could never be true.
He sucks in the winter air. “Damn, Millie, you drive a hard bargain,” he says. “But here’s the thing … I don’t believe you.”
I squeal in delight and shock as his tickling hands find the spots that usually bring me the most savage self-consciousness. My curvy hips, the spots between my breasts and my belly, and yet when he touches me I feel something beneath the whispering doubt.
I feel …
Sexy as a freaking queen.
“Okay, okay,” I gasp, squeezing onto the solid mass of his chest muscles.
He stops, smirking, cocky and so handsome I could shed an icy tear.
“You shouldn’t look so damn cute when you’re being tickled,” he growls. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist now.”
