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He believed Sam—she would beat off the hordes if she thought they threatened him. That should be his role. It was his role, but he couldn’t deny he liked the image of her as his warrior queen.
He’d told her part of the truth, but not all of it. It wasn’t only her illustrations that inspired him.
How had he not realised Leila was a portrait of her? Loyal and impetuous, passionate but private. She brought out the best and worst in Gabriel, who plodded along trying to do what was right, sometimes in the worst possible way.
This was a perfect example of that—he hadn’t only lusted after her for eight years, he’d written about her, and it wasn’t until she’d forced his hand that he’d realised it.
Like Gabriel, the only time he shone was when he was focused on Leila—the real and the fictional.
He came to stand by the bed and again she did that little sigh and snuggle, her fingers sliding under his pillow with a hiss that travelled over his skin. Even in sleep she refused to stay on her side, she had to keep invading, testing, pushing and prodding... And giving.
He breathed in and out, trying to will his body into quiescence, but it was useless. He wanted her with an ache that had nothing to do with sexual gratification. He wanted to be inside her not so he could climax but so he could be as close as life and physics permitted.
So they could be parts of the same story.
He should have looked for her eons ago. He should have been a man and admitted to Dora it was a mistake eight years ago when he returned to London and realised he had proposed to her for all the wrong reasons...except then he would not have had those years with Jacob and no matter how horrible losing him was, it felt infinitely worse thinking he might never had had him. He could never wish away that gift.
He sat on the side of the bed and her eyelids fluttered, her fingers withdrawing from under the pillow. He moved his thigh until they rested against it. Foolish things like this. This was what he wanted. Little raindrops of joy, one by one, gathering into a mighty ocean.
I will never let you go, Sam. Ever.
He could almost hear the words, shoving through him like spikes. Ripping and shredding as they went until they pierced so deep inside a viscous heat began spilling from his core.
‘You’re mine,’ he whispered and her lips moved again, an echo without sound, but she didn’t wake. He slipped under the cover, her legs and hips warm and soft against his chilled skin. That woke her, the remnants of the firelight turning her eyes a deep endless grey.
‘Why are you so cold?’
‘I was thinking,’ he answered and her mouth curved.
‘Night’s for dreams, not thinking,’ she murmured, her eyelids fluttering closed again. She wrapped her arm around his torso, snuggling against him.
It felt so good. So right. So utterly foreign and right.
She was right, night was for dreams, not thinking—and for now he could dream she was utterly his and wanted him wholly for himself and that is how the world would always be. His Leila.
‘Leila.’
* * *
Leila.
That single word pushed back the pleasant warmth flowing between their bodies. She’d been sleepily revelling in the perfect fit of her body against his, the velvet-soft skin over hard surfaces. But that word shook her and she didn’t know why. She raised herself on her elbow to try to make out his features in the darkness. He’d unplaited her hair and it flowed over her shoulder on to his chest like a pool of dark blood. She tried to push it back, but his hand tangled in it, holding her there.
‘I like it on me. I feel I’m drowning in you.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘It’s heaven.’
It looked like Edge, and sounded and felt and smelt like Edge, but this could not be Edge. Even in the stuttering of the embers she could still make out his expression—he was always different when they made love, but this was different still. He looked...mesmerised. His hand was toying with her hair and his eyes with her face, moving over it as if he’d seen her for the first time.
‘Edge, have you been drinking?’
He shook his head.
‘Thinking.’
‘About?’
‘Leila.’
Oh. So that was what inspiration looked like. He was probably far away and any moment now he would be out of bed, searching for pen and paper. A small sigh of disappointment escaped her before she could call it back.
‘You always were a fierce little warrior.’ His fingers were as soft as the words as they skimmed her lower lip. ‘God, what a fool I am.’
‘You’re not a fool,’ she said instinctively, a little crossly, because she didn’t quite understand what he meant. He smiled, the mesmerised look replaced by laughter.
