Her snort may have been inelegant, but his grin made the sound all the more worth it. Once he had the shirt open, he walked his fingers along her torso. He seemed intent on studying her, memorizing every mole. Then he grazed his fingers along the scar at her throat.
“What is this?” The flare of anger in his eyes belied the control in his voice.
She could soften the blow, perhaps even sugarcoat where it came from, but it would be a disservice to him. “A memento from the night MI6 decided to burn me. They thought to slit my throat in the shower.” Had they been a tad quicker, or she even a moment more distracted, and it might have been her body he found in his flat.
The tension in his expression became quite severe. “I didn’t realize how close to the mark they came.”
“No worries. I returned his blade to him in spades. I apologize about the arterial spray on your Munoz.” The artist had always been a favorite of his.
“Considering the source, I think it may have made the piece invaluable.” Then he dipped his head and pressed his lips to the scar. Tenderness showered her through the light action. Her nipples tightened, but he made no move to touch her anywhere else. Instead, he began to strip her with perfect efficiency, his gaze assessing as he inspected her.
The scars on her right shoulder held him riveted. Two perfectly placed bullet wounds. Those she’d incurred on the way out of rescuing Titanium and his men in Russia. A guard had been unconscious—not dead—and he’d shot her as she pulled one of the men out. It had hurt like the dickens, but she’d managed.
“Well?” he demanded, his gaze fierce.
“They’re the remnants of bullet wounds.” Playing obtuse did not come naturally to her, but she enjoyed the hint of amusement in his irritation.
“I bloody well know what the scars are from. I want to know who gave them to you and if—”
“Oh, good grief.” She smacked his shoulder. “I’m lying here nude, and you’re obsessing over some old scars? Have my breasts truly lost their fascination for you? Or my legs? Once upon a time, you swore you couldn’t get enough of my pussy.”
The distraction worked. He zeroed in on her mouth. “Say that again.”
“Beg pardon?” Since he wanted to delay the inevitable, she contented herself with running her foot along the back of his leg.
“Pussy. Say it again.”
“How do you make it sound so very dirty when you say it?” The tease pulled a smile from him. “A pussy is a fine thing, I’ve often enjoyed your attention on mine.”
His whole chest rumbled. “Again.”
“Are you mocking me, peasant?” The last barb struck its mark, and he glided his hand along her body as he shifted to lay on his side. His hand cupped her sex, with the heel of his palm pressed firmly against her clit. Electricity surged through her at the intimate contact, the ache in her womb a demand.
It had been so long since she’d even anticipated such a simple touch, much less the act.
“I’ll mock you if I choose, m’lady. My bed. My rules.”
“The hotel’s bed, Samuel.” She arched her eyebrows, then let her legs spread farther as she arched her hips. If he didn’t want to move, she’d pleasure herself on his hand.
“Mine.” No mistaking the firmness of his claim or the way his fingers curled against her to tease her entrance, even as he gave into her demand and began to massage her clit. Brilliant pinpoints of tension began to radiate outward, then he dipped his mouth to catch one nipple between his teeth, and she cried out.
The anticipation of him alone made her so sensitive. “Very well, if it gets you moving then,” she managed to strain out. “Yours.”
He froze, then raised his head slowly to meet her gaze. “Don’t toy with me, Addy.” All pretense lifted. The man gazing at her exposed a raw and vulnerable side of himself she’d seen far too rarely and remembered even less.
Pushing his hand away, she rolled over and straddled him. He went to his back, his hands resting on her hips as she began to unbutton his shirt. “I’m not toying with you. I love you.” There, she’d said it. “I’ve loved you for nearly as long as I’ve known you. I loved you when I hated you.”
Spreading his shirt wide, she smoothed her hands over the planes of his chest. Fit, and sturdy. He complemented her, big and broad where she was slighter of stature and leaner. More, he delighted her with the way his gaze tracked her every movement. Sometimes, she swore he read minds. Hers, at least.
“You have your share of scars.” She traced the long, jagged mark stretching from his pec to his abdomen. Then over the two bullet wound scars to the left of his heart. “Scars I gave you.”
He covered her hand with his. “Scars we gave each other.”
“You don’t get to excuse my actions if you don’t allow me to excuse your own.”
“Then we won’t excuse them.” He cupped her breasts, his thumbs tracing a light circle around her nipples. “We’ll learn from them. For example, when we fight, we’re unarmed.”
The corners of her mouth curved. “And when we have sex?”