Page 91 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

I stared at him—this complicated, infuriating, wonderful man who kept pulling me close and pushing me away in the same breath. Who looked at me like I was everything and then reminded me I was temporary.

And yet, he looked desperate in a way that had me saying, “Okay.”

His brows pulled together. “Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll trust you. For now.” I reached up, cupping his scarred cheek. His eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into my touch. “But this conversation isn’t over. You can’t keep hiding behind vague explanations and expect me to just accept it forever.”

“I know,” he breathed.

“Good.” I let my hand trail down his jaw, his neck, over his bare chest. He shuddered under my touch but didn’t stop me. “Now, I believe you said something about tasting me?”

His eyes snapped open, dark with want. “You sure?”

“I’m sure I don’t want to end tonight on an argument.” I lay back against the cushions, letting him see me—half undressed, flushed, still wanting him despite everything. “I’m sure I want your mouth on me. Even if it’s all you’ll give me right now.”

Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. And underneath it all, that ever-present hunger.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, lowering himself over me.

“Not when you act like an ass,” I agreed. “You can make it up to me.”

His laugh was low and rough against my stomach as he kissed his way down. “That I can do.”

He took his time, sliding my slacks down over my hips, nuzzling my lace panties, then slipping them off too, until I was fully bare to him. The reverence in his gaze as he stared at me, the fascination, like he wanted to memorize exactly how I looked, set me on fire.

“Already wet for me,” he murmured, running the pad of his pointer finger over my folds. I shivered.

Then he lowered his head, kissing the inside of my left thigh, then my right. Then he pressed a kiss to my clit, his warm breath fanning out over my swollen, aching flesh. I exhaled, relaxing into the couch.

He went slower than before, licking up the length of my seam, savoring me. I groaned. Each stroke of his tongue had the muscles deep in my belly tightening. I forgot our argument. Forgot my hurt. Forgot everything except my need for him. For the pleasure he offered.

His efforts were thorough. Paying attention to every part of my sex. Sucking my clit between strokes. Developing a rhythm that pushed me closer to the edge. Like he needed to prove something with every stroke of his tongue. I let myself sink into the sensation, let the pleasure wash away the frustration, even as that new word echoed in the back of my mind.

Claiming.

What did it mean? What was he so afraid of? I certainly wanted to be claimed, over and over and over. Wanted to claim him, too.

Then his teeth nipped gently at my clit, and I stopped thinking about that, too.

When I finally came, it was with his name on my lips and his hands anchoring my hips to the couch. He worked me through it, gentle now, easing me down from the high until I lay boneless and trembling.

He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. Then my hip. My stomach. The curve of my breast. Finally, my lips—soft and sweet, tasting of me.

“Thank you,” he murmured against my mouth.

“Pretty sure that’s my line.”

He huffed a laugh, then pulled back, grabbing a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over me. The gesture was tender. Careful. Like I was something precious.

It made my chest ache.

I glanced at the clock, not realizing it was almost midnight.

“The bunnies,” I said, remembering. “I need to put them to bed.”

“I’ll do it.” He was already standing. “You rest.”

“Axel—“