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“You feel that?” he charged. “Singed. Searing. On fire. Because of you, Lucina Fava. Because of what you have done to me.” He worked the pad of his thumb along the flat of my tongue. “By the Creator, what I still want you to do to me.”
My breath hitched. My lungs were pierced as if with needles, struggling to funnel new air to my body. My eyelids dragged, heavy with arousal, but I forced myself to keep looking at him. If I didn’t, I’d fantasize about that finger turning into other body parts. Who the hell was I kidding? I’d already gone there. It was clear he had too. Our stares locked and glued, bound by the new fantasy. I flicked my tongue to his fingertip. He hissed then swallowed.
Okay, this shit had to end. Right here.
Through sheer determination, I pulled back. Between the harsh pumps of my breaths, finally got out, “What Ambyr should be doing to you.”
I backed it with a firm stare, though in the end, couldn’t compete with the impact of his—especially when the sea gods conspired with him, sending a gust of wind into the room. The blast flapped the filmy curtains then lifted his hair, turning him into something worthy of a Peter Jackson epic. Beautiful. Primal. I jotted a mental note. Lodge official complaint with Mother Nature. I’d dutifully chosen an earth-saving hybrid over the red Mustang of my dreams, and gotten rewarded with a windblown sex god I couldn’t touch again?
Okay, not any more than how much I still touched him. Or was he touching me? And wasn’t that just semantics, considering how our bodies were still positioned? God, how perfect he felt, with his crotch still fitted against mine, his ridged abdomen molded against my belly, his shoulders still blocking most of my view?
Along with his glare.
Oh, yeah. That.
“So that is the way of it now?” he funneled the look into visual form. “I am Ambyr’s problem once again?”
Seethe. Then a glower to match his, though infused with my own touches. Pissed-off and bewildered. “Problem? Really? That’s your takeaway, buddy?”
“Take…away.”
And just like that, the windswept god turned into an adorable child mulling a new vocabulary word. Also just like that, I forgot to be irked with him. Instead, I longed to soothe his confusion. And what a lovely wave of fresh conflict that jump started…
Shit.
This was not going the right way. I supposed to be pulling down the mental menu of tactful post-orgasm buh-byes, not wondering how to ease the furrows pinching his forehead. Though I had to admit, the quotation marks in his flesh simply seemed another facet of his beauty, like his thick eyelashes and straight nose. But while God had put him together so flawlessly, all those aspects had traits of uniqueness. Features I could lay here and explore for hours, given the chance…
Not. Happening.
Pack it up, missie. Packhim up.
Good plan.
One I’d carry out—just as soon as I took care of those furrows. Only the furrows. I meant it; I really did, no matter how warm and firm his skin was, as I lifted fingertips to the space between his eyebrows. I meant it, even as I trailed my touch down, eliciting a shaking breath from him—
Just as I inhaled sharply.
Synched once more.
To each other.
With each other.
No.People didn’t just “synch”. That bullshit was for things like Merchant & Ivory movies with actresses who tossed “bloody hells” the way I slung the f word, rocking the corset-and-pantaloons look with their creamy breasts and tiny waists. My breasts had been called a number of things, but never creamy. And the last time my waist and “tiny” were in the same sentence, I was twelve.
But dear God, how I wanted to let out a good “bloody hell” as the man dipped his stare down, all the way to where our bodies were still tangled.
Instead I rasped, “Shiraz…”
He lifted his head. “What, tupulai?”
Bloody fucking hell.
“I’m damn certain Ambyr will consider you the best ‘problem’ she’s ever had.”
It was a lob into the unknown. I still wasn’t sure exactly where he and Ambyr were at, and was damn sure Miss Manners was on the tsk-tsk side of mentioning a man’s potential fiancée while he was still lodged between one’s legs, dressed or not. But necessity didn’t always take stage cues well. The truth of it was symbolized with piercing precision by the stronger gust in the room now.
The blast felt angry—another spot-on parallel, if the cast of Shiraz’s face was any proof. Yeah, I’d only met the man hours ago, but would stake hard cash his jutted jaw and magma glare were his you-said-the-wrong-damn-thing look.
