I breathe a shaky, “Okay.”
He brings my legs up and together long enough to pull the scrap of fabric over my thighs and off. Then he lays me open again.
He'd said he was determined, and if I’d had any doubt, I believed him then. He's meticulous and thorough and sinfully skilled with his mouth. My hips rise and fall with his ministrations, and I lose track of the number of times I call his name.
It doesn't take him long to know me at all. Within minutes, he's zoned in on my most sensitive spots, discovered which movements make my legs shake, and the pressure that makes me tighten my grip in his hair.
“You taste sweet here, too. So damn sweet.”
He keeps me on the edge for so long that when I do fall over, it catches me by surprise. It lifts me up and then flattens me, leaving my head dizzy and spinning. The pleasure is so thick that my body feels heavy with it, like I might not ever be able to move again. And he's still going, easing me through it, drawing out my pleasure until the last possible second, until my hearing goes fuzzy, until it goes on for so long it almost hurts. Almost.
And I can't help but imagine if he'd be this dedicated to getting to know the rest of me. Not just my body. But my thoughts. My desires. My fears.
As my mind clears and the real world rolls back in, alarm streaks through me like lightning. Suddenly I am unable to keep all my thoughts at bay. Not about what happened tonight, or who I am, or all the reasons I can never see Wilder again after tonight. And the truth scorches me, burns me up, and sends tears pricking at my eyes.
Because I've never felt anything this perfect. Never been so overwhelmed by the need to touch someone, to hold tight and not let go.
And knowing that I can't? That I have to let him go … It's devastating.
It all catches up to me then, the lack of sleep, the exhaustion from all the energy I've expended. And that’s when I pay for all the lightness I felt by holding on to the inspiration. I’d felt light and free, but now the full weight of all my years is back. Doubled even. Rather than lying sated and carefree in his bed, I feel as if I’m being crushed against it, pressed down by a mountain of stones.
“Kalli.” By the way he says my name, I guess it's not the first time he's said it. “Where'd you go? Come back to me.”
I take a gasping breath, trying not to let it overwhelm me, and Wilder rolls to lie beside me. Tears well in my eyes, and I want to scream because he shouldn’t see me like this. I don’t want him to see me like this.
“I'm okay,” I answer, even though I’m not. And I know without even having to look at him this time that he doesn't believe me.
“Come here.”
He pulls me flush against his chest, just drags me over as if gravity isn’t fighting tooth and nail to pry me back. I cling to him—arms and legs and lips. I bury my face in his neck, kissing him there between gasping breaths. And somehow he makes it better and worse all at the same time. From the moment I laid eyes on him, he represented the life I would never have. But back then it had been abstract. A vague idea of family and love and permanence. But it’s not vague anymore. I know the taste of his mouth and the weight of his body on mine. I know what it’s like to give my pleasure up to another person, to give them complete control. I know what it’s like to give that to him, when I’ve always maintained my head, my emotional distance with every other man in my life.
Then there’s this … his arms around me and his soft words in my ear telling me that it’s going to be okay, telling me it’s fine every time I choke out an apology. He doesn’t just tolerate my emotion, he welcomes it. How will I ever forget the feel of this?
Sometime between his stroking of my hair and the kisses he drops on my forehead, my thoughts thin and then go quiet. My tears dry up. I buckle under the weight of the night, and in his tight hold fall straight to sleep.
Chapter Eight
I wake to exquisite warmth, and for a moment it’s thousands of years ago, and I’m lounging under a golden Greek sun. I remember the mountains where we dwelled for so long. I know that land like a lover’s face. Each sloping feature is as easy to recall now as it was a millennium ago. Things had been so much simpler then, and the prospect of eternity had still seemed a blessing. Slowly, I become aware of a breeze rippling through my hair, but it’s not the mountain wind that beckons me. This isn’t cool and crisp, but warm and sweet.
I drag my eyes open, and instead of mountainous rock, I find soft, heated skin. I blink, confused because the body I’m draped over is not familiar. The chest is broader, dusted with fine blond hairs that reappear low on a taut stomach.
Van is long and lean with dark hair. I conjure his face, and it comes to me with an oxygen mask fitted over his mouth. Then the memories return in a rush, first pain and guilt and confusion, but they swiftly fade into horror.
I try to jerk upright, but the arm around my middle tightens, and I’m drawn further onto the body of the person lying next to me.
Wilder.
I blink. And those memories come back too, but slower. They tease at my mind almost as sensually as the actual events of last night, and now I’m practically on top of him. One of my legs is slung over his waist, and it’s abundantly clear that we’re both naked. Then I remember exactly how our interlude had ended. Or rather … the fact that it hadn’t really reached its end. Not for him anyway. He’d completely flipped my world upside down, and then instead of reciprocating, instead getting to know his body as intimately as he explored mine … I cried.
I cried on him. While naked. Then apparently, I fell asleep.
Oh man, I suck.
I look up at his face, and despite my wiggling, he’s still out. The scruff on his face has thickened even more overnight, and I have to resist the urge to drag my fingers across it. His chest rises and falls steadily with each breath, pressing his abdomen up against my breasts each time. His hand is positioned low on my back, fingers curling almost possessively around the curve of my bottom.
And for a brief moment, I think about shifting further on top of him. His erection is semi-hard, brushing against my leg, and it would be so easy to slide my hips over his, to rock against him. Would his hand slide further down my ass when he woke? Would he pull me down for a kiss? In his sleepiness, would he look more sweet or sexy? I could do my best to erase the way last night ended, and maybe he’d forgive me for crying all over him and leaving him unsatisfied in his own bed.
But to what end? It would be good, maybe even brilliant, but when it was over, there would be questions I couldn’t answer. And while my actions yesterday had tamed the need to use my gift, I wasn’t running on empty anymore. Not like last night.