“You did all of this yourself?”
He laughed and the sound of it traveled to all the places in my body that were hungry for him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I guess I didn’t see you as the picnic type.”
He poured coffee into the little cup that came with the thermos and handed it to me. “What type did you see me as?”
I looked up, like I was thinking hard about the answer. “The type to barrel through a McDonalds drive-through with the music blaring? The type to shovel food into your mouth while you drive?”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch.”
I grinned. “Sorry.”
He handed me a plate with two burritos and set the container of fruit between us.
“Three months ago you wouldn’t have been far off the mark.” I sensed he had more to say, so I took a bite of my burrito and waited. “I think I’m just starting to realize I’m capable of more than I thought.”
“In what way?”
Now it was his turn to chew and think. “I thought I was selfish.”
I tipped my head. “What do you mean?”
“Before you came to live with us,” he said. “I thought I was selfish. I thought I’d washed out of the bureau because I wasmore intent on having fun than getting the job done, thought I wasn’t cut out for regular life because regular life meant thinking about someone else, and the truth was, I didn’t want to think about anyone else, didn’t even know if I was capable of thinking about someone else.”
“I’ve never thought of you as selfish,” I said, plucking a peach slice from the container. “I just thought…”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“I thought you were wild. Reckless. Out of control.”
I popped the peach into my mouth and its juicy sweetness hit my tongue in a burst of flavor.
“I was. I am. Except now I’m all of those things for a different reason.”
“What do you mean?”
He held my gaze. “I’m wild for you, Cass. Reckless for you. Out of control for you.”
I fell into his eyes, as dark as Ares’ and Freya’s and every bit as knowing.
Every bit as ageless.
Then he was crossing over the food between us, an unstoppable force pressing me back against the blanket.
“Your burn…” I hated how weak my protest sounded, but the truth was, I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.
“Fuck my burn.” He nuzzled my neck, inhaling deeply like he was breathing in the air after a spring rain.
“Your incision…”
“Fuck my incision.”
I pushed my hands into his long black hair, relishing the silky strands in my fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I feel like I’d said it a million times since the explosion at the paper mill but it was always true, and he’d just gotten the stitches in his stomach removed the day before.
“It hurts me not to touch you.” He pulled back. “And I want to look at you up close, want to really look at you.”
