Chapter
Thirteen
Larkin
The storm was raging outside, angry and loud, letting the world know it was powerful and strong and all-consuming.
The power had flickered on and off for half an hour before we were finally plunged into darkness. And now I sat on the couch in the living room, the fire Odhran had started roaring in the hearth, my focus on a book I found on the shelf.
But I wasn’t paying attention to the words, my eyes skimming over the sentences without taking anything in. I kept thinking back to how I reacted when he held me, when he kissed my neck and desire had licked through me so fast and hard, I never wanted it to end.
I looked away from the fire and stared at my mate. He leaned back in the leather chair, a glass of whiskey balanced on the armrest, his fingers curled around it. His focus was on me, and the shadows played across his face, flickers of light making the masculine angles seem sharper.
He gave me a small smile, and I wondered if he was thinking the same things I was. Because even if I panicked earlier, it felt good, and I hadn’t wanted it to end, even if my mind had done that job for me.
“How are ye feeling, lass?”
I licked my lips and didn’t miss how his gaze dropped to my mouth or how his pupils dilated.
“I’m okay.” I have to be.
I could see the worry on his face and knew no amount of me telling him it wasn’t him who made me react the way I had earlier, but me, would alleviate any kind of worry he had.
I kept thinking over and over that something was terribly wrong with me, something so broken that it could never be repaired, could never be put back together.
I’m stronger than this. I’m stronger than my horrors.
I set the book down and slowly rose. The shirt I wore was Odhran’s and hung to my knees, and I wore a pair of thick wool socks that were pulled up so they got swallowed by the hem of the shirt.
Although he’d gotten me a few pieces of clothing from a small boutique in town, I found myself still wearing his shirts and socks. It made me feel closer to him.
As I walked toward him, any lingering twinges of pain from the wound at my side faded to the background. I watched as his fingers tightened around the glass, saw his throat move as he swallowed. I felt this unwavering heavy weight of sadness fill me suddenly.
When I stopped in front of him, he tipped his head back and stared at me, his eyes hooded, the fumes of the whiskey he drank mixing with the dark and wild scent that clung to him. My belly fluttered, and desire made its way through me once more.
I wanted him.
“Larkin?” His voice was a husky rumble.
I was tired of being afraid. I was tired of fear tethering me to the unknown. I knew Odhran wouldn’t hurt me. I knew he’d only give me soft touches and sweet kisses.
And so I found myself sitting on his lap before I could stop myself, before I could let all my thoughts weigh me down until there was nothing else I could think about. I could feel how tense he was underneath me, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply.
I’d never done something so bold, never even thought about it, but here I was, both legs hanging over Odhran’s thickly muscled ones, my focus on his lips. I let myself memorize every part of his face, the masculine scruff that covered his jaw and cheeks. His eyes were so blue, his nose straight and strong, his lips full and pink.
I stared at the scar that ran the length of one side of his face and found myself lifting my hand to run my finger along it. I thought back to the day he’d gotten it, how I’d screamed and cried as I watched the sword move toward him and cut him deep.
“You’re so very beautiful to me,” I whispered, and felt my cheeks warm that I said the words out loud. Surely a male didn’t want to hear how beautiful he was. But the smile he gave me, and how he covered my hand that rested against the scar, had any shyness leaving me.
My heart was beating so hard and fast I could hear it. My other hand shook as I lifted it and cupped each side of his face. His scruff was springy yet soft under my palms.
For a suspended moment, neither of us spoke. He sat there and let me explore him, let me run my fingers over all the hard lines and sharp angles that made him so very masculine. And then I was staring at his mouth once more.
I trailed my fingers over his top lip, then moved it along his bottom. His mouth was soft despite all the maleness he exuded. And when I lightly shifted on his lap and felt the very prominent hardness right under my bottom, a soft sound escaped me.
“I’m sorry, Larkin,” he all but groaned. “I canna help it, no’ with ye so close.”
I smiled, because he sounded so pained in the best of ways.