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Chapter Twelve
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She even mesmerized him when she was asleep.
Especially when he was the one who’d exhausted her like this.
Yeah, that probably turned him into fifteen kinds of a creeper-stalker bozo dork, but right now, Franz was ready to let that freak flag fly. He hadn’t been able to help a bunch of lingering gawks even when they weren’t in the same bed together, and now with her just inches away, he flipped a mental middle finger at the resistance.
It was time to indulge, because it would soon be time to give this up.
Yeah, even the gawking.
He noticed the things that always turned him crazy caveman for her, of course. The wild tumble of her brown sugar hair. The sleek curves of her mouth, expressive as hell even as she slept, twitching as if even her subconscious was dictating to-do lists. The determined line of her jaw, turning into the elegant line of her neck, becoming the beginning of her slender shoulders…
A sight drawing him to all the details he didn’t know yet.
The sprays of light freckles across both those shoulders. Her really long fingers. Her really big ears. The fact that he’d never believed in heart-shaped faces before confronting the truth, beautiful and breathtaking, in hers.
He looked longer, determined now. He wanted to discover it all—but at the same time, knew he never would. The woman was going to be his president, yet still looked at so many things about the world, and people, as if they were brand-new. Many people mistook that as naiveté, discounting her because of it. Many others were captivated by it, as he’d seen firsthand in Zeke and Rayna when they’d arrived last night. He wondered how the crowd in DC split on those spectrums, though from what he knew of politicians, he guessed the former—and barely muffled a snarl of outrage because of it.
Not that the heavy huff with which he replaced it any better, proved by the restless twitches of Tracy’s lashes. She interrupted her dreamtime list-making with a harsh shake of her head, a move Franz recognized at once. He’d made the same move himself, having to haul his brain from sound asleep to wide awake in seconds. Most days he still woke up the same way, only to be pissed he couldn’t break the habit.
The woman’s face contorted with the same frustration. He didn’t know whether to be delighted or aggravated about it. She was still so gorgeous, even in her ire, he almost expected cartoon birds to flit in and help with little ribbons in her gorgeous hair—which made no sense at all, considering he hadn’t seen a cartoon in a long goddamn time.
“Oh.” She murmured it as if answering a question to herself, also a move he understood. After realizing she wasn’t in the bed of her mind’s default—for him, it was always the futon on the back garden lanai at home—she’d likely wondered where she was, then fast-tracked the memory up to now. That’d explain her sudden flush, as well as the embarrassed flicker of her gaze around the room.
Anywhere but at him.
“Aloha, ku’uipo.” He went on, answering the query in her eyes, “It translates to something like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘adored one’.”
She accepted the information with a thoughtful smile. Shot him a tiny side-eye before murmuring, “You have an interesting way of ‘adoring’ a woman, Captain.”
He nestled his head on a bent elbow. Contemplated the woman with a look of raw fascination. How had this happened? She’d thrown out the formality as a conversational spike strip but it had failed. Though he saw through her ploy, he wasn’t pissed by it. He was challenged. Captivated. And hard as a damn rock.
Why?
Was it just her voice? The ribbon of it, like sleek satin on one side and a wild animal print on the other, was a great start but not the whole story. Not by half. It was her. The more he learned about her, the more he realized he didn’t know—but craved to. Like the covers tucked under her arms, exposing enough to make him lustful for more, he longed to pull back what she still concealed in her heart, her soul, her spirit. He wanted to know it all…
“I receive a lot of interesting feedback too.”
She laughed softly—and kept her gaze averted. “I imagine you do.”
“What about…yours?”
“My what?”
Screw it. He couldn’t resist reaching to her anymore. That blush, flowing down her neck, enticed him to stroke in its wake. He ran his knuckles down her carotid and across her exposed collarbone, submersing a growl as he brushed the rose of a lingering bite mark on her shoulder. His bite mark.
Damn, yes.
“Your feedback.” He flowed the touch over, until capturing her opposite cheek with his thumb—and tugging her gaze his direction. “How are you doing?”
Her brows knitted. Her stare centered on his nose. Dammit. “Why are you asking?”
John grunted. Wasn’t the first time he’d encountered avoidance, though he’d never been in a position where he couldn’t simply command it out of a woman. In so many ways, this wasn’t what he was used to after spanking, biting, then fucking a woman.
Well, shit.
