Page 106 of Sorrow & Strangers

Truth be told, I am more than drawn to him, and even though I ran from him again today, he is never far from my thoughts.

My breaths grow shallow as my fingers itch again, and I slowly slide my hand over the sheets, inching closer to him. His shoulders are so wide, his muscles rippling even when he is completely relaxed. He is so powerful in every way, and it draws me like a moth to a flame. He’s barely breathing, but when my fingers just lightly brush against his bare back, he lets out a soft moan at the barely there touch. This isn’t his avatar. I can feel his skin, but I’m unable to see any of his face, and I don’t try.

My breath catches as he shifts back toward me, seeking more of my touch. I slide my fingers over one of his scars, gently tracing the ragged edges. He moans again, and this time it’s a little louder. Within the confines of the dream, the rules are different. He can feel me, and I can feel him, but he remains hidden. I slide my fingers down his spine from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, my touch softer than a whisper. The shudder that runs through his body is visceral, as if I’d stroked his soul.

I brush my fingers over one of his runes, and though the room is dark, with only a sliver of silvery light bouncing off the floor, I notice how it seems to shift beneath my touch. I frown, and when it moves again, I tug my hand back, the foreign magic feeling odd against my skin. As if afraid I am going to disappear, he reaches back and snares my wrist, placing my hand back against his bare skin. He groans again, his body vibrating with it, and I wonder how deep his touch starvation goes.

“Turn around,” I say, and I’m not sure why I can’t settle into my resolve. Why do I constantly need more?

He hesitates, and I wonder if he is having the same internal battle between what he wants and what he should want. If he is, he isn’t having any more success than I am, because he rolls toward me after a moment. His chest looks different from what I’ve ever seen in his glamours. It’s more defined and covered in expertly drawn runes. This is him. I know it is, and if I thought his glamours were hot, they pale in comparison to the reality of him. I look over his chest, memorizing every dip and curve. His muscles seem to tighten under my scrutiny, and all I want to do is lick him from head to fucking toe.

I have to resist, but I have no idea how.

I meet his gaze. His face is still blurred, concealing his identity, but I can see his eyes glowing.

“Touch,” he says. It’s a plea cloaked in a command, and what I hear in his voice weakens me even further.

“I . . .” Shit, this is a bad idea. What is happening to me? I need to hate him, to despise him, but I don’t fight him when he wraps his big hand around my wrist and guides my hand to his pec, brushing my fingers over the hard muscle. A low groan vibrates through his chest, and I dig my nails in a little, testing what he likes and dislikes. What I like . . .

“More,” he moans, and the desperate need I hear in him touches a piece of me I would prefer stay dormant.

Gods.

“Stranger,” I say, about to pull my hand back, reaching for my last drop of resistance, but he still has a hold on my wrist. He moves my hand to his neck and pulls me in close, his other hand sliding below my waist. I barely breathe, afraid to move at all.

“More,” he whispers on a breathy sigh of pleasure, and the smell of bourbon and mint from his breath wraps around me, enticing me. I trail my fingers along his neck and down over his shoulder, following the dips and curves of sinew and muscle. My gaze remains on his face, watching transfixed as his eyes flutter closed.

I continue my exploration of his body, trailing my fingertips down his strong arms, watching as his lips part, and he starts to pant softly.

My own breaths grow shallow as my fingers blindly explore his scars and runes, my power rousing in response to the strange power coming from his moving runes.

“All of me,” he whispers.

I swallow. “Stranger,” I say, and I can hear the uncertain question in my own voice tensing. This is too much, too intimate.

He opens his eyes, meeting my gaze. “Yes, princess?”

“What are you doing?” I ask. Though it’s not the question I should be asking.

“Letting you feel me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

I shake my head and look away. “I shouldn’t,” I protest, pulling my hand away.

“Don’t stop,” he says, his voice strained, and I meet his gaze again, seeing the vulnerability there.

My fingers tingle as I think. This is such a bad idea. This is not what I should be doing. I need to get back to where I was before, when I didn’t want him around. Not this. Never this.

“I need it,” he says baldly.

Any resolve I managed to maintain, shatters. “This doesn’t change anything.”

His hand at my waist slides down to cup my ass, and he pulls me close, my body now flush with his. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, little fae.”

I brace my hand on his chest, expecting to feel regret now that he has masked his vulnerability once more, but all I feel is need.