Page 54 of Guarded by My Gargoyle

Mine.

He still didn’t know what the hell he’d meant then. He knew what he meant now, though, with her beneath him and her hands on him and that challenging little smile curving the mouth he’d been thinking about for weeks.

“Mine,” he said again, and the smile disappeared.

Not because she was afraid. He would have stopped if he’d seen fear. He was watching for it even now, vigilant beneath the heat, aware of every difference between them. His weight. His claws. His strength. The hardness of his body against the softness of hers.

But she only looked up at him, hazel eyes dark in the firelight, and reached up to touch his face.

Something inside him went quiet. Not the desire, God, no, but everything else. The calculations that never stopped. The running lists of work still to be done, problems still to be solved, calls to be returned. The awareness of the enormous house beyond this room and all the empty rooms inside it. Even the restless need that had driven him for twenty years—build something, fix something, keep moving—fell silent beneath the simple sweep of her thumb along his jaw.

“You’re thinking,” she murmured.

“I’ve been accused of it.”

“Stop.” His brow rose, and she smiled again. “Just for a little while.”

He caught her hand and turned his head, pressing his mouth into the center of her palm.

“I can try.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something you’d put in a contract.”

“I don’t put things I can only try to do in contracts.”

“Of course you don’t.”

She was laughing at him. He discovered he liked that too. He kissed her before she could do it again. After that, thinking became considerably more difficult.

He took his time despite every instinct urging otherwise. Patience was easy when there was a wall to rebuild or a foundation to pour. Stone didn’t shiver when he touched it. Stone didn’t breathe his name against his mouth or run warm hands up to the tips of his ears and discover, with obvious delight, that this made his entire body go rigid.

He pulled back sharply, and she blinked up at him. Then her eyes narrowed with interest.

“No,” he warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something, little thorn.”

“I’m learning things.”

“Maris.”

She stroked his ears again, and he closed his eyes. Her laugh was soft and delighted, and he decided there were worse things in the world than providing a curious female with educational opportunities.

He found a few of his own. He learned that the spot beneath her ear made her catch her breath. That she liked the roughness of his palms against her skin and didn’t flinch from his claws as long as he was careful. That the freckles scattered over her shoulders continued farther than he’d known and demanded investigation. That when he curled one wing around her, shutting out the room on that side, she reached for the membrane with wondering fingers instead of pulling away.

He froze, and her hand stopped immediately. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No.”

She waited.

He forced the words out. “I like it.”