“I wasn’t going to.” His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair. “I was going to say we should go somewhere more comfortable.”
She pulled back enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged, his usual control nowhere in evidence.
“The inn is a fifteen-minute walk,” she said.
“We can make it in ten.”
They barely madeit in ten.
The walk back was a blur of tangled hands and stolen kisses, stumbling on the path because neither of them wanted to stop touching long enough to watch where they were going. Leo’s arm stayed around her waist, heavy and possessive, and every time they paused—to navigate a steep section, to let a night creature scurry past—he pressed her against the nearest tree and kissed her until she forgot her own name.
The inn was quiet when they arrived, the lobby dark except for the witch-light sconces that burned perpetually low. Junie was dimly aware of Avine’s door being firmly closed—the innkeeper tactfully absent—as they climbed the stairs.
They reached Leo’s room. He fumbled with the key, distracted by Junie’s lips on his neck, and she felt a surge of triumph at having cracked his famous composure.
The door opened. They stumbled inside.
“Are you sure?” Leo asked, his forehead pressed against hers. “After everything—the attack, the talk, if this is too fast?—”
“Leo.” She cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Stop planning. Stop asking if I’m okay. I’m telling you what I want.” She kissed him softly. “I want you.”
His control snapped.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed without breaking the kiss. Her back hit the mattress, and then he was above her, bracketing her body with his arms, looking down at her with an expression that was equal parts reverence and hunger.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Leo.” She pulled him down to her. “Stop talking.”
He stopped talking.
They lay on the bed, hands exploring, clothes slowly disappearing into the darkness. The moonlight through the window painted silver stripes across his skin as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. She traced the new scars on his ribs, the bite mark on his shoulder, the evidence of the fight he’d survived.
“These don’t bother you?” he asked, watching her face.
“These are proof you came back to me.” She pressed a kiss to the scar on his ribs. “These are beautiful.”
He made a sound—half-groan, half-laugh—and rolled them so she straddled his hips. His hands found the hem of her shirt, pausing there.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
He pulled the fabric over her head, and Junie felt a flash of vulnerability—being seen, being known, all the things that terrified her. But then Leo was looking at her like she was the most incredible thing he’d ever witnessed, and the fear dissolved.
“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly.
“You’re biased.”
“Probably.” His hands traced up her sides, gentle but sure. “I don’t care.”
Junie leaned down to kiss him, her hair falling around them like a curtain. The kiss was slower, deeper, a conversation conducted in touch and breath. His hands mapped her body with patient intensity, learning her responses, cataloging every sound she made.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she could see the restraint costing him. The controlled businessman fighting with the predator underneath.
