He wanted to shake his head free of the flowery thoughts—he had never been a man for poetry—but could not seem to staunch the flow, despite her secrets.
Leaning down, he caught her soft, sleeping lips with his own.
Her mouth was its own sweet homecoming, more and more addictively familiar with every taste.
Unsurprisingly, her bed was firm, the give going only skin-deep, but comfortable nonetheless, steady and secure and just soft enough to be welcoming.
She softened into him on a sleepy sigh, her arms coming around his neck, the silken length of her skin brushing along his as they went, charged beneath the surface like lightning coated in velvet.
Pulling back far enough, he looked into her remarkable eyes. She was awake, her stare as cool as deep and alert as a well, and full of welcome.
Trailing a line of kisses along her jawline, around her ear and down her neck, he laid his sensual trail from her face south, pressing his lips along her collarbone, before trailing down the valley of her chest, and farther still, until he reached his treasure.
She tasted like salt and summertime, and his mind overlaid the moment with memories of licking sweet melted juice off his fingertips beneath a hot sun, infusing her flavor with the rush of forgotten freedoms and untethered joy.
She had been his from the moment he’d seen her throw her champagne glass at her father’s statue, and he was territorial—even if she didn’t believe it was real. And he sensed that was true. That despite all they had been through together, despite the fact she carried his child, she expected to return to life as normal when all was said and done—another grand adventure over and gone.
Breaking apart, once again at his mercy, he proved yet again that she was wrong.
He would prove it to her as many times as it took, as many times as she had to shatter beneath his hands, his mouth, his body, in order for the idea to take root and sprout.
Still ruthless and restless, he made his way back up to her mouth, possessing her once more, absorbing her lingering gasps in his kiss.
He was hungry for her, his body demanding satisfaction even as his eyes drank in the sight of her. It had been a matter of weeks and he felt as starved for her as if it had been years, and that was a power she had over him. A power he didn’t want her to see in his eyes for fear of what she’d do with it.
When she opened her eyes, he was caught in their blue web.
“Where’d you come from?” she asked, voice thick.
Turning from her, taking in the room, anything but her, he said, “I never left.”
She nodded. “And you’ve been tracking me?”
“Yes,” he said. He saw no reason to deny it.
“You came in through the trellis?” she asked.
He nodded.
Rubbing her neck, she yawned. “That’s crazy. I never sleep that hard.”
His narrowed eyes shot to her, but her own were closed as she stretched her neck. It would have been a good opportunity for her to tell him.
She didn’t.
His stomach churned and he looked away again.
Following his gaze, unaware of his inner turbulence, a grin stretched across her face, her chin taking on the arrogant tilt he had learned to find both maddening and delightful, and she said, “That was my first win against my father.”
He lifted an eyebrow at the rug. There were at least a hundred shades of blue in it, its huge round form taking up a remarkable amount of space.
She laughed, a little breathless in her pride, even now, what he imagined was a long time later.
“You made it?” he asked.
She nodded. “It took two hundred and sixty-eight T-shirts and an entire summer to secretly complete. I got the idea online and when I showed my parents, my father said, ‘Playing with garbage is for trash, Helene.’ Mother and I redesigned my entire suite around it.”
It was a small battle, but he could tell it was meaningful. “How old were you?” he asked.