Reid kissed the corner of my mouth. Then my jaw. His lips lingered just beneath my ear, where he knew I was sensitive.
My fingers tightened in his shirt.
“Reid.”
His hand slid around my back, broad and possessive, holding me against him.
“Tonight,” he said.
The word was low enough to make my breath hitch.
“Is that reassurance,” I asked, “or an order?”
He lifted his head.
Desire darkened his eyes.
“You won’t have to ask.”
A bark echoed from the hallway.
We froze.
Marlowe shuffled into the kitchen with the grave disapproval of a retired judge. His muzzle had gone almostentirely gray, and one of his ears folded more than the other, but age had done nothing to diminish his talent for interruption.
He looked at Reid.
Then at me.
Then at my plate.
“You ate,” Reid told him.
Marlowe sat.
“He disputes your account,” I said.
“He has had breakfast twice.”
“Perhaps he’s emotionally depleted.”
“By what?”
“The decline of civilization.”
Marlowe thumped his tail.
I tore off a corner of toast and passed it down.
Reid sighed. “That is why he doesn’t respect me.”
“He respects kindness.”
“He exploits weakness.”
Marlowe swallowed the toast whole and stared at my hand.
Reid checked the time. “We need to go downstairs.”
