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“I can’t lose you,” I replied.
He didn’t point out I’d already lost him. There were no bonus painful reminders that he’d left me and was obviously rebuilding himself with a new life, in a better apartment, with a promising future having nothing to do with my dark, scary world. His new home had windows. He couldn’t have windows with me.
Gently, he cupped my chin so I had to meet his serious gaze. The violet-gray eyes I loved more than any other single part of him were cloudy and intense. “He’s made this threat before,” Desmond reminded me. “I’m still here. ”
He was so close I could have licked my lips and touched his. Our breath mingled, smelling of light beer and limes, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Instead it reminded me of summer and the former taste of his lips. I couldn’t have that memory fresh in my mind and not act on it.
I closed the distance between us, placing a frantic, desperate kiss on his parted lips. He let out a small moan, either a noise of surprise or pleasure, and pulled back a moment later. He looked dazed and uncertain, my chin still cupped in his palm.
“I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” I whispered, my voice gone thick. I slid closer to him—it was easy to do with my foot already in his lap. Soon I was straddling him and his hand had slipped to the back of my neck, angling my head towards his. I thought he’d fight me, but he wasn’t. He was yielding in a way I’d only dreamed he might. It was too easy, but I didn’t care.
“Secret…”
I was unbuttoning his shirt, shushing his words with fluttery kisses every time he opened his mouth. “I love you. ” Nothing I’d ever said had been as true as those words in that moment. “I need you. ”
One of his big hands squeezed my thigh, making me feel small. The other hand held my head effortlessly, forcing my gaze to meet his. The same intensity flooded his eyes, but there was something hot there now. Desire eclipsed rage, turning his eyes almost solid purple. Need plucked at my insides, demanding I make this happen before anything stopped us, like common sense.
“I need you,” I repeated, sliding my hands into his unbuttoned shirt, my fingers finding the smooth circle of flesh where his chest hair no longer grew. It was the size of a quarter and felt cool to the touch in contrast to the flushed skin around its perimeter.
He growled, a sound I wasn’t used to hearing from Desmond.
“You still smell like him,” he said. He meant Lucas. The werewolf marriage ceremony left his impression all over me as a giant Fuck off, this is mine signal to any wolf who might think I was fair game. That mark was why Desmond had left. Basically Lucas had taken a big metaphysical whizz all over my aura, staking his claim.
Instead of letting him pull away, I twined my fingers through his short hair and clamped down, making sure he was looking at me this time.
“I’m not his. ”
“You smell—”
It was my turn to growl, and I bit his lower lip before speaking again. “If you don’t want me to smell like him, make me smell like you,” I instructed.
For a moment I thought he might refuse.
Then I was on my back on the coffee table.
Chapter Twelve
Our forgotten beers flew off the table and onto the floor.
I gave up fumbling with his shirt buttons and had gone instead to the belt buckle digging into my pelvis. He shucked off my jacket and sent it flying over the couch, then pulled me abruptly into a sitting position, my ass on the edge of the low wood table.
“Take that off,” he said, his voice husky and commanding.
At first I thought he meant my shirt, but then I realized I was still wearing my holster and gun. Carefully I removed the leather straps and did a quick check to make sure the weapon was safetied before placing it on the couch rather than having it thrown somewhere. The second I had the gun out of my hands, he was untucking my shirt and pulling it over my head. I undid the last of his shirt buttons and pushed it off his shoulders before I tugged his belt free of the loops on his pants with a flourish.
With his shirt off, I could see the scar on his chest. A small, near-perfect circle slightly puckered on the edges where the silvery skin was still pink. I touched it, reaching out slowly to give him plenty of time to pull away or move my hand. He didn’t. Instead he stopped what he was doing and watched as the pad of my thumb brushed the smooth circle of flesh.
In response he touched a matching silver scar on my shoulder, making me shiver. He leaned me back onto the coffee table again, his mouth finding the scar on my stomach where I’d been run through by the katana which now hung over my fireplace. My collection of permanent scars was more impressive than his, but for some reason the little circle on his chest hurt me worse than any of my wounds had.
“I’m sorry,” I said, placing a kiss on the scar.
“I’m not. ”
“You could have died. ” He was busy undoing my pants, but he went still when I said it.
“I didn’t. And neither did you. ” He said it in such a way that I knew we were done with this topic. I hated how he’d been hurt because of me, but he considered it worthwhile because I was alive.
