Page 76 of Impawssible Magic

He makes me laugh. Even now. Even here.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.

“Kiss me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds mine like he’s been memorizing the path for weeks—which, knowing him, he probably has. The kiss starts slow. Careful. The same control he brings to everything, the same intensity held in check.

But I don’t want careful tonight.

I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him closer. Press my body against his. Let him feel exactly what I’m offering, what I’m asking for, what I need.

He groans against my mouth. The sound travels through me, lighting fires in places that have been cold for far too long.

His hands find my waist. My hips. The hem of his shirt riding up my thighs. Every touch deliberate. Every movement asking permission even as his kiss turns hungry.

“Aslan.” His name feels different in my mouth now. More intimate. More mine. “I want this. I want you. Stop being noble and⁠—”

He lifts me.

One fluid motion, hands under my thighs, my legs wrapping around his waist. The kiss doesn’t break. If anything, it deepens—his tongue sliding against mine, his teeth grazing my lower lip, his grip on my body possessive in a way that should alarm me but instead makes me feel wanted. Claimed. His.

He carries me toward the bedroom.

The room is simple. Bed with rumpled covers. Dresser. Windows facing the mountains. But I barely notice because he’s laying me down on sheets that smell like him, and his weight is settling over me, and his hands are everywhere.

“Leire.” My name in his voice. Rough and wanting and reverent. “Are you sure?”

“If you ask me that again, I’m going to⁠—”

He kisses the words away. Smart man.

His fingers find the buttons of the shirt—his shirt, on my body—and work them open with patience I don’t possess. Each button reveals more skin. Each inch exposed draws a sound from him that’s barely human. By the time the shirt falls open, I’m trembling. Not from cold.

“Beautiful.” He traces the curve of my breast. The dip of my waist. The flare of my hip. Mapping me like I’m territory he intends to know completely. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You’re still dressed.”

“Problem?”

“Very much.” I reach for his shirt. “This is supposed to be mutual nakedness. I’m reading the fine print of the situation and you’re in breach of contract.”

“You’re making legal jokes right now?”

“I make jokes when I’m nervous. Also when I’m happy. Also when I’m angry. Basically all the time. It’s a character flaw.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He lets me pull off his shirt, lets me finally see the body I’ve been imagining since the first time I watched him move through my shop. He’s built exactly as he should be—lean and powerful, muscles carved from years of fighting and shifting and protecting. Scars mark his skin. Old ones faded white. Newer ones still pink.

I trace one across his ribs. “This one?”

“Warding Line breach. Three years ago.”

Another, curling around his shoulder. “This?”

“Training accident. Torin felt guilty for six months.”

“The man who made the fish pillow did this to you?”