He nearly leapt from his skin when she touched him, running her fingers over the muscles of his chest, exploring the dips and rises of his warm body, reveling in the way he labored to breathe beneath her touch.
She let her fingers dance down the ridges of his torso, and he caught her hand in his before she could touch him where he strained, proud and stunning. “No,” he said.
She looked up at him, twisting her hand from his grasp. “Yes.”
He shook his head, something like pain chasing over her.
She came up on her knees and kissed him, long and slow and lush. “You said you would give me anything I asked.”
He groaned. “You are too good at our game.”
It was her turn to shake her head. “Not our game, Mal. This is our due.” Her hand slid lower, finding him hot as fire and hard as sin, and they both sighed at the touch. “Show me,” she whispered.
And he did, without shame, wrapping her hand in his, showing her just how he liked to be touched. She leaned forward, her lips skating over his chest, her hands learning his pleasure. Reveling in it until he released her with a groan. “No more.”
She did not stop, instead looking up at him, capturing his gaze. “Do you not wish it?”
He laughed, the sound pulled from him in disbelief. “I have wished it for three years, love. For longer.”
She stroked, long and lush, loving the way he responded, the way she controlled him. “As have I.” She watched her hand working over him, riveted to the beautiful strength of him, to the smoothness, to the way she could command his breath. “I have wished for more than this.”
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of him, never feeling so powerful as she did when he swore, harsh and angry and full of want, his hands coming to touch her, to slide into her hair. “You shouldn’t—”
But he did not stop her, and if he had tried, she would never have allowed it. Of course she had to. If this was to be the only time she could take this pleasure with him—this power—of course she wanted it.
She could not stop herself, licking over him, breathing him in, and he was tight as a drum, his hands trembling as they hovered, barely touching her, as though he was afraid to let himself go.
She adored the barely-there edge of his control, reveled in it, played at it with her hand, her breath, her lips, sliding over him with a feather-light touch, claiming his size and strength and his desire. Marking him as hers.
So much so that she whispered there, “Mine.”
“Always,” he replied without hesitation. “Forever.”
She ignored the last, knowing it wasn’t true, but wanting to believe it in the moment. She licked over him, testing the salt and sweet of him, suddenly wild for it, for him, and he groaned, his hands coming to hold her more firmly even as he refused to move her, to take what he wanted.
She smiled against him. “Show me what you like, husband.”
And the word undid him, as it did her, sending a pleasure pooling hot and heavy to her core as she parted her lips and took him long and slow and deep, hard and hot as he lost control of his words, cursing and praying in equal measure as she licked and sucked and drew him deep, wanting nothing more than to give him pleasure and to take her own.
There had been times when she had imagined being with him like this, imagining what it would be like to drive him mad, to send him over the edge. Imagined how they would have found all the ways to pull each other apart and then piece each other back together. Night after night. Just as he’d said. Forever.
But she did not have forever. She had now.
His hands tightened in her hair as he released another groan, louder and wilder than before, and a thrum of pleasure coursed through her. “Sera, Angel . . . I cannot . . .” He paused, breathed deep as she gentled, licking over him, tasting him. Thrumming with passion. “Love, I’ve waited too long. I want to be with you when it happens.”
The words, honest and beautiful, stayed her, and she released him, raking her gaze over his strong, lean, beauty—drinking him in, willing herself to remember every inch of him. “I want to be with you, as well,” she whispered, coming up to her knees and kissing him long and deep. “I want every inch of you on every inch of me. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without sorrow.”
“Yes.” He caught her to him, cupping her breasts, playing at the hard tips until she sighed and rocked against him, making him groan. “God, yes. Whatever you want.”
Those words, again. So different from what he’d offered her long ago. So different from what she’d asked for. “I want you.”
His hands came up, cradling her face, holding her still so he could watch her. “You have me.” So plain. So honest. So late.
Tears pricked with the past. With the soft, unsettling whisper of a question—what if he’d offered himself to her years ago? What if they’d had another chance?
“I love you,” he whispered.
What if they had one now?
But they didn’t. There was no way to overcome the past. To put away the way they’d slung weapons at each other. And there was no way to erase the most basic of truths—the life they could never have because their only chance at it had disappeared in the cold January snow three years earlier.
She kissed him, because she could not find another reply.
Because she did not want to think of one.
He pulled away almost instantly, his lips clinging to hers even as he pushed her away, as though he knew what she was thinking and wanted to discuss it. “Sera,” he said, and she heard the intention in her name.
She shook her head. “Not now, Mal. Not here. Not when I’ve been waiting so long. And you, too.”
And then she lay back, spreading herself on the bed, one knee bent, arms wide, welcoming. Wanting.
His eyes flashed with desire and his lips flattened. “After.”
She nodded. “After.”
She would have promised him anything then. Anything to ensure that he would make good on his promise.
Gloriously, he was on her then, just as she’d asked. Every inch of him over every inch of her, the glorious, straining length of him notched against the wet heat of her, pressing perfectly, teasing her. His arms came up to cage her between them, her hands stroking over his beautiful broad shoulders as he rocked into her, against the place she wanted him more than anything. Pleasure shot through her and she gasped at it and the sudden, desperate ache that came from it.
She wanted him. Immediately.
He repeated the motion, teasing her, the head of him hard and firm against the place where he had always been able to make her wild. “You like it, don’t you, Angel?”
“I do.” The words came on a moan about which she refused to be ashamed.
He kissed her deep and did it again. A reward for her honesty.
“Tell me how,” he whispered. “Tell me what you wish.”
And she did. “Harder,” she insisted. “Again.”
He did it, and it was perfect.
“Mal.”
He rocked against her, pressing firmly until they found her edge, and he played there, lingering, pushing her nearly over and then pulling her back from it, until she was biting her lip and thrashing on the bed, begging for release.
“Mal. Inside me.”