In His Keeping (Slow Burn #2)

“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry,” he said, regret echoed in his every word. “I’d give anything to be able to tell you that, honey, but you’re not dreaming now.”


Her eyes flashed open again, her pupils more normal—and equal—one of the things Doctor Carey had told him was a warning sign of brain injury. Pin prick or uneven or unreactive pupils. It gave him some small measure of relief that despite having used her powers—unconsciously—she hadn’t incurred another bleed, nor did she seem to be ill affected by the incident.

“Are you hurting?” he asked quietly. “Do you need the medicine the doctor prescribed?”

She shook her head in silent denial. She stared into his eyes, seeming to absorb him. Awareness slithered up his spine, despite his attempt to quell it. But she felt it too. He knew she did, because her eyes widened, and she focused in on him even more intently until he felt as though he were drowning in the pools of her eyes.

They were as two magnets, inexorably drawn to one another by a power that defied explanation or definition. It felt . . . right. So very right. More so than anything else he had ever experienced before.

Her pull was electric. His nerve endings were painfully aware. His skin suddenly felt too tight. Uncomfortable and yet . . . pleasurable. His thoughts were as chaotic as hers had been when she’d been firmly in the grasp of her dreams. Only, this dream was one he never wanted to awaken from.

Slowly, as if they were in a dream, she lifted her head, her hand sliding up his arm, over his shoulder, lightly caressing up the sensitive skin of his neck to finally come to rest against his jaw. Her lips were mere centimeters from his, her breath whispering softly against his mouth and chin.

Carefully, almost as if she feared rejection, she angled her head just a bit so that their mouths were perfectly aligned, and she pressed her warm, lush lips to his.

It was an electric surge, a jolt to his entire body. He held his breath, his muscles rigid and straining as she explored his mouth, tentatively at first, and then when she met with no resistance, she grew bolder, her tongue dancing over his lips, an invitation for him to open.

He complied with her silent request, relaxing his jaw and allowing her access. The feathery strokes of her tongue against his was driving him insane with want and need. So much need. Like nothing he’d ever felt in his life. With no other woman. Not this overwhelming urge to protect, to dominate, to possess, to cherish, to reassure her and make promises he had no way of knowing if he could keep but wanted to offer nonetheless.

Alarm seared through the haze of mindless pleasure her mouth offered. She was vulnerable. Fragile. In no condition to truly be cognizant of her actions. One of them had to be thinking clearly and at the moment, it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—take advantage of her. Even as his body and mind roared in unison to take, to possess, to claim.

He hadn’t understood Caleb’s obsession with Ramie. How any man could be so wrapped up in a woman. To be completely without reason or rational thought. But now he realized, that if his brother had felt even a fraction of what Beau was currently feeling, then he understood. It was a nearly blinding moment of clarity, when everything clicked into place, and he experienced the sensation of rightness that only a specific woman could bring to a man.

It took every bit of his will and strength to break the kiss. To tear his lips from hers, his chest heaving as though he’d just ran a mile uphill. His heartbeat was every bit as thunderous as hers had been minutes ago when she’d just surfaced from the throes of a terrible dream. Only his was the sweetest of dreams, the kind one never wanted to be shaken from.

“Beau?” she whispered, hurt evident in her voice.

Her eyes immediately became shuttered, and she tried to turn her face away, so he couldn’t see what his rejection had done.

Gently he cupped her cheek, forcing her gaze back to his. He forced control into his words, and he made himself look her in the eyes, hoping like hell that she could see the utter sincerity that surely had to be blazing from his.

“We can’t do this, Ari.”

He nearly choked on the words. Why couldn’t he be the selfish bastard he’d always considered himself? Or the cold, blunt bastard he was well accustomed to being? Why now, of all times, did he discover a conscience that demanded he absolutely protect Ari when she was at her most vulnerable and not to, in any way, take advantage of her at her weakest.

When her eyes became glossy with unshed tears, he nearly lost it. Goddamn it, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her. His tongue felt clumsy, thick in his mouth, when just seconds ago it was tasting the sweetest of pleasures. He grappled with the words—the right words—to ease the sting of his rejection.