Wyatt tilted her head, deepening the kiss, and she opened for him with a soft moan that went straight to his cock. She tasted like coffee and sweetness—honey, maybe, from her morning tea. He licked into her mouth, slow and thorough, and felt her shiver against him.
“Wyatt.” His name came out breathless when they broke apart. Her pupils were blown wide, lips swollen and parted. “I need?—”
“Tell me.” He kept his voice steady despite the fire building in his blood. “Tell me what you need.”
“I want to experience more than being afraid.” Her fingers slid up his arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
His restraint snapped.
He kissed her again—harder this time, deeper, his hands sliding down to grip her hips and pull her flush against him. She gasped at the evidence of his arousal pressing against her belly, and the sound made him growl.
“Not like the festival,” she managed between kisses. “Not fast and frantic. I want—” She broke off, frustrated, her fingers tightening in his hair.
“What do you want?” He nipped at her lower lip. “Say it.”
“I want you to take your time.” Her voice dropped, husky and wanting. “I want you to make me forget everything except how you feel inside me.”
Fuck.
His panther surged at her words, and Wyatt had to take a breath. Two. Force himself to slow down when every instinct screamed to take her right here against the wall.
“Bedroom.” The word came out half-growl. “Now.”
He took her hand, lacing their fingers, and led her down the hallway. Past the spare room where she’d been sleeping. Past the bathroom. To the door at the end.
His room. His bed.
His.
TWENTY-FIVE
WYATT
The bedroom was dark except for the light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. Wyatt turned her to face him, and for a moment, they stood there. Breathing. Watching each other.
“You’re beautiful.” The words came out rough, honest. “Every time I see you, I lose track of my thoughts.”
A smile curved her lips—real, for the first time since the grocery store. “You hide it well.”
“Years of practice.” He reached for the hem of her shirt. Paused. “Can I?”
She nodded, and he peeled the fabric up and over her head. Dropped it to the floor. Let his gaze travel over the lace of her bra, the curve of her waist, the soft swell of her belly.
Perfect.
“Your turn.” Her hands found his buttons, working them open one by one. Her fingers grazed his skin with each one she freed, and he felt those touches everywhere. “Fair is fair.”
His shirt joined hers on the floor. Narla’s gaze traced his chest, his abs, the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband. When she leaned forward and pressed her lips tothe scar over his heart—an old wound, long healed—his breath stuttered.
“I’ve thought about this.” Her mouth traced a path across his chest. “Every night in that spare room. Knowing you were just down the hall.”
“I thought about it too.” He caught her chin, tilted her face up. “Every night. Every morning. Every time you walked past me smelling like beeswax and lavender.”
He kissed her again, slow and deep, and walked her backward until her knees hit the bed. She sat, then lay back, and he followed her down, bracing himself on his forearms to keep from crushing her.
“Wyatt.” Her legs parted, cradling his hips. “Please.”
“Not yet.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. Her jaw. The sensitive spot behind her ear that made her gasp. “I told you—I’m taking my time.”
