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“When we switched bodies that time. Did you . . . do anything?”
“Did I take advantage of a metaphysical accident to molest the woman I was sworn to protect?” he asked, rephrasing in that annoying way of his.
I sighed. “That sounds like a no.”
“And that sounds like disappointment.”
“Hm. You could have looked.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t look.” Hands found my hips, steadying me, if clenching on my ass counted.
“You did?”
“I had to get dressed. That is difficult on an unfamiliar body if the eyes are closed.” His head tilted. “Why do you look absurdly pleased about this?”
“I’m not.” It would have been more convincing if I could have stopped grinning.
“It sounds as if you want exculpation.”
“What?”
“Did you do anything?”
“No. But I’m about to make up for it now,” I warned him.
“You’re not.”
I tried to arch an eyebrow, but as usual, they both went up. “And why is that?”
“It’s my turn,” he growled, and rolled us again.
Chapter Twenty-one
And, just like that, the atmosphere changed. From light banter and slowly awakening arousal to . . . whatever this was, I thought, staring up at him. Suddenly, it was all very real: I was on my back, and Pritkin was braced over me with one arm, the muscles standing out from the strain. He used the other to position me, his eyes holding mine as he moved, slowly and deliberately, letting me know what was coming.
Yet I still didn’t believe it until I felt him at the entrance of my body, warm and hard and thick and heavy. Until he bent his head to mine and whispered, “Say yes,” against my skin.
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes, but did nothing else for a long moment. It was like he wanted to prolong this, too, like he wanted to remember every whisper, every sigh. Every shiver that broke over my body, every small movement that I made because I just couldn’t stay still, every breath against his lips that had turned into something closer to gasps when he just stayed there, immobile, with almost inhuman control.
And when he did move, it wasn’t what I’d expected at all. The kiss he pressed against my lips was sweet and gentle, almost chaste. Until I opened beneath him with a faint whimper of need and it turned into fire, the heat of it sinking into my bones and setting me alight.
I arched up and he deepened the kiss, taking my lips in a long, slow, lingering exploration, before taking everything else. He pushed inside, filling me up until I thought I would burst, until I thought I would die from the perfection of it, the warmth of the heavily muscled body over mine, the hot, thick glide of him inside me, the knowledge that he was back, that he was safe, that we were together and nothing was going to change that. Finally, finally, finally.
It resonated like the beat of my heart, like the shout of victory I wanted to give, like the laughter that bubbled up to my lips and came out as a groan instead. I put a hand behind his head and pulled him farther down, farther into me, as our tongues dueled, as our bodies intertwined, as the scent of our arousal flooded the air around us. Until his heartbeat pulsed at the core of my being.
It was perfect—it was absolutely perfect.
For a moment.
And then my own heart was threatening to beat out of my chest, sweat was slicking my skin, and my breath was coming quick and ragged in my throat. This wasn’t the first time we’d done this, but it felt like the first time. Because the other time had been on a battlefield while an angry god tried to kill us along with the rest of the world!
Wales had been colors and sights and sensations, but not the right ones. Passion had been mixed with pain, desire with desperation, and pleasure with the certainty that the world was about to end. To say that I’d been distracted was to put it mildly.
But I wasn’t distracted now, and it was almost too much. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much everything. I’d waited so long, anticipated this so much, and now that it was here . . .
I was panicking, for no reason at all.
