She tried to catch him and pull his head to her, to kiss all that nonsense back into sex, but he had her good hand pinned, and her splinted hand bumped futilely, unable to grip properly.
He smiled and took her wrist gently, below the splint, then slowly brushed his lips and jaw all the way up the inside of her arm, from elbow to wrist.
The prickles and silk of him shivered through her, over and over, dissolving her into all that mass of magician’s scarves, colorful and lovely and helpless before the power of his spell.
Just a trick, not a spell, she tried to tell herself, but she kept getting lost in her own words. They fled away before sensation, as if her mind, too, was only silk and colors and yielding.
Emotion. Hope. Wonder.
Why are you here? Why does being pinned by you like this make me feel safe and wanted and hungry instead of caught in a power struggle?
“Let me go,” she whispered, and his hand slid down from her wrist. He freed her with a caress of calluses down sensitive skin, tracing burn marks and spatters near her wrist, then the pale skin that was always protected by her chef’s jacket and hadn’t seen sun since she spent a week in Réunion after New Year’s. His thumb curved over her biceps, tracing the definition of arms that looked so much slimmer than his but were very strong.
She was strong and used her body to its utmost, and he was strong and used his body to its utmost, and here they were—physically, she would always, always be outmatched by his strength. He would always be able to roll her under him and hold her down.
Which was why a woman should keep a good knife and some heavy steel pots to hand, but…
…thoughts of them, of any kind of strength, got lost in silk and colors.
She pushed at him. He shoved the coffee table away to give them more room and rolled them over again, bringing her on top.
Wow, what a fantastic view. That hard body stretched out for her, those gleaming, hungry blue eyes. Even his stubborn chin seemed a little less like something a woman would break herself against, right that second.
She kissed it, to test. No, still hard. But the skin just below that jaw was so soft. His head arched back as she kissed it.
Chase slid his hands under her cami, his palms and fingers rubbing up her ribs and belly as he pushed it up, up, until he came to her breasts. He cupped them through her bra, watching her face, watching his hands, enjoying both views.
She shivered and stretched into his touch. Her half-dry hair slid over her shoulders.
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Maybe I’m dead.”
She had to pause at that, bracing herself off him with one hand.
“You can break it to me if I am,” he said. “I’d be okay with it. I’d actually probably feel a lot safer that way.”
“Well, of course you’d be safer,” she said. “If you’re dead.”
His face relaxed into that grin. “Coward’s way out, you’re saying?”
“Is there a reason we’re having a morbid conversation right now?”
“Well…I figure if some people get angels and some people get ninety-nine virgins or whatever…I’d rather get you. You’re perfect.”
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, to fight the upsurge of warmth and, well…honor. She was really his idea of heaven?
“Well, to be honest, the other options always sounded like hell,” he confessed. “I’m really relieved someone thought up a special version just for me.”
“Just shut up already,” she said, because she could feel a tide of color rising up her face, and she ducked down into him to hide it, kissing his chest.
“I talk too much,” he confessed into her hair, his hand stroking it. “You make me babble.”
He wasn’t always like that? Her cheeks heated more, and she kept her face firmly pressed into his chest because that heat just wouldn’t die down. It was just that he made her feel so, so…damn vulnerable and flattered and special.
No man ever made her feel special. She always had to do it all by herself.
She kissed his chest, very gently, just this little secret thanks, and petted the hard muscle, resting her cheek against him to watch her hand. She liked those springy curls of hair so much. The way his chest felt rising and falling under her hand in a deep breath. The way his abs tightened in response to her palm, the little round hollow of his belly-button—
He covered her hand a moment, pressing it to his belly, and took another long breath. “Honey,” he said very softly as he let it out.
And that was all. After a second, his hand slid away, releasing hers to explore again, and he undid the button on his jeans.
How thoughtful.
Her mouth curved a little at this very clear indication of what he wanted, and she nestled her fingers just at the top of his zip, running her thumb under the elastic of his briefs, toying with the tab of the zip.
“Witch,” he said.
“But you told me to slow down,” she reminded him, biting her lip.
“Damn but you hold a grudge.” His hands moved to her butt, and he began to stroke them far too lightly up and down her curves, just grazing, not nearly enough pressure.
She twisted against him.
He laughed, deep and smug.