“He can’t take you away. Not again.”

Desmond gave my foot a squeeze. “No, he can’t.” Alex Rodriguez scored a grand slam, making the score an embarrassing 7-0 against the poor Mariners. All in the top of the third inning. Desmond was trying to be serious, but he could barely suppress his yip of joy. And that, in a nutshell, was why I loved him so much. Someone was threatening to completely uproot his life, and he still took the time to delight in his favorite team trampling another.

When he looked back at me, he saw something that made him mute the television. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”

“I can’t lose you,” I replied.

He didn’t point out I’d already lost him. There were no bonus painful reminders that he’d left me and was obviously rebuilding himself with a new life, in a better apartment, with a promising future having nothing to do with my dark, scary world. His new home had windows. He couldn’t have windows with me.

Gently, he cupped my chin so I had to meet his serious gaze. The violet-gray eyes I loved more than any other single part of him were cloudy and intense. “He’s made this threat before,” Desmond reminded me. “I’m still here.”

He was so close I could have licked my lips and touched his. Our breath mingled, smelling of light beer and limes, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Instead it reminded me of summer and the former taste of his lips. I couldn’t have that memory fresh in my mind and not act on it.

I closed the distance between us, placing a frantic, desperate kiss on his parted lips. He let out a small moan, either a noise of surprise or pleasure, and pulled back a moment later. He looked dazed and uncertain, my chin still cupped in his palm.

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” I whispered, my voice gone thick. I slid closer to him—it was easy to do with my foot already in his lap. Soon I was straddling him and his hand had slipped to the back of my neck, angling my head towards his. I thought he’d fight me, but he wasn’t. He was yielding in a way I’d only dreamed he might. It was too easy, but I didn’t care.

“Secret…”

I was unbuttoning his shirt, shushing his words with fluttery kisses every time he opened his mouth. “I love you.” Nothing I’d ever said had been as true as those words in that moment. “I need you.”

One of his big hands squeezed my thigh, making me feel small. The other hand held my head effortlessly, forcing my gaze to meet his. The same intensity flooded his eyes, but there was something hot there now. Desire eclipsed rage, turning his eyes almost solid purple. Need plucked at my insides, demanding I make this happen before anything stopped us, like common sense.

“I need you,” I repeated, sliding my hands into his unbuttoned shirt, my fingers finding the smooth circle of flesh where his chest hair no longer grew. It was the size of a quarter and felt cool to the touch in contrast to the flushed skin around its perimeter.

He growled, a sound I wasn’t used to hearing from Desmond.

“You still smell like him,” he said. He meant Lucas. The werewolf marriage ceremony left his impression all over me as a giant Fuck off, this is mine signal to any wolf who might think I was fair game. That mark was why Desmond had left. Basically Lucas had taken a big metaphysical whizz all over my aura, staking his claim.

Instead of letting him pull away, I twined my fingers through his short hair and clamped down, making sure he was looking at me this time.

“I’m not his.”

“You smell—”

It was my turn to growl, and I bit his lower lip before speaking again. “If you don’t want me to smell like him, make me smell like you,” I instructed.

For a moment I thought he might refuse.

Then I was on my back on the coffee table.

Chapter Twelve

Our forgotten beers flew off the table and onto the floor.

I gave up fumbling with his shirt buttons and had gone instead to the belt buckle digging into my pelvis. He shucked off my jacket and sent it flying over the couch, then pulled me abruptly into a sitting position, my ass on the edge of the low wood table.

“Take that off,” he said, his voice husky and commanding.

At first I thought he meant my shirt, but then I realized I was still wearing my holster and gun. Carefully I removed the leather straps and did a quick check to make sure the weapon was safetied before placing it on the couch rather than having it thrown somewhere. The second I had the gun out of my hands, he was untucking my shirt and pulling it over my head. I undid the last of his shirt buttons and pushed it off his shoulders before I tugged his belt free of the loops on his pants with a flourish.

With his shirt off, I could see the scar on his chest. A small, near-perfect circle slightly puckered on the edges where the silvery skin was still pink. I touched it, reaching out slowly to give him plenty of time to pull away or move my hand. He didn’t. Instead he stopped what he was doing and watched as the pad of my thumb brushed the smooth circle of flesh.

In response he touched a matching silver scar on my shoulder, making me shiver. He leaned me back onto the coffee table again, his mouth finding the scar on my stomach where I’d been run through by the katana which now hung over my fireplace. My collection of permanent scars was more impressive than his, but for some reason the little circle on his chest hurt me worse than any of my wounds had.

“I’m sorry,” I said, placing a kiss on the scar.

“I’m not.”

“You could have died.” He was busy undoing my pants, but he went still when I said it.

“I didn’t. And neither did you.” He said it in such a way that I knew we were done with this topic. I hated how he’d been hurt because of me, but he considered it worthwhile because I was alive.

I pulled him against me so his bare skin touched mine and neither of our scars was showing. For a moment I just wanted to hold him close and feel him breathe with me the way we used to when we slept in the same bed night after night. I’d missed the sex, absolutely. But I’d missed him more. His warm skin, his scent, the cadence of his breathing. Every tiny fiber that made him Desmond was something I had craved like oxygen since he’d left.

Finally, when I thought I might break down and cry from the overwhelming emotion of what being near him was doing to me, I bit his earlobe and whispered, “Take off your pants.”

He was up in a heartbeat, kicking off his work pants and socks, which made me chuckle warmly. He pinned me with a warning expression. “You won’t be laughing long.”

Biting my lip, I fought the urge to tease him more, but with him looming over me it was almost impossible to find anything to laugh at. His skin was olive over the perfectly toned planes of his body. His legs and arms were corded with muscle, and his abs might as well come with a Lick Me sign attached to them. The dark hair over his chest formed a thin trail down his stomach, begging my eyes to follow from his bellybutton to the low waist of his black boxer briefs. The cotton on his underwear was straining dramatically, and I got wetter just looking at him.

My mouth was dry and my tongue thick. I couldn’t have made fun of him if I wanted to. I didn’t want to. The only desire left in me was to have him inside me in every way imaginable, as fast as possible.

“Get up,” he said.

I did without hesitation. I thought he might take me on the coffee table, it felt sturdy enough, but he had a different idea in mind. Once I was standing, he lifted me right off the floor and slung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Instead of being surprised—after all, he’d done this to me before—I took advantage of my position by slipping my hands into his underwear and giving his ass a squeeze while running my tongue along the beautiful toned V on his lower back above the waistband of his boxers. Before my tongue was allowed to explore anything farther south I was in the air and tumbling backwards. I landed on a soft down duvet and he was on top of me, giving me no time to have a look around his dark bedroom.

His natural scent was mingled with something headier now, a musk I recognized as desire. Instead of giving any more instructions or speaking at all, he removed my panties without hesitation and undid my bra with one looped finger, tossing both aside in turn. When he knelt over me, I slid his own underwear off, leaving him bare and hard in front of me.

My mouth wasn’t dry anymore.

Closing my lips over the head of his cock, I lowered my head with aching slowness, savoring every moment. I’d never thought I’d be able to taste him again, and I wanted to remember every second of it. My tongue caressed each curve and hollow, circling his head as I withdrew, holding suction until the end.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “I thought you didn’t want to kill me.”

I cast my eyes upwards, watching him as I lowered my head again. This time he seized my hair roughly and pulled my mouth out of reach. He couldn’t stop my hands though, and one palm cupped his balls while the other wrapped around his rigid shaft, which was still damp from my saliva. His mouth formed a thin line.

“You’re asking for trouble,” he warned.

“Then stop me,” I replied, squeezing his balls with gentle pressure.

“Turn over.” He growled the words and flipped me onto my hands and knees before I had time to comply with his instructions on my own. He placed a palm between my shoulders and gave a commanding push. I put my arms under the pillows and dropped so my upper body was pressed flush against the comforter.

My hair clung to my face from the sweat beading on my skin, so I couldn’t see him, just felt his hands grasp my hips and tug them higher until my ass was snug against his pelvis, the hard length of him nestled between my cheeks. I let out a shaky breath as he traced a path down my back and then up to my neck again. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and twisted it around his wrist, jerking my head up so I was looking over my shoulder at him.

With his other hand he guided himself to my opening, and the head of his cock slipped in easily. It had been long enough without him inside me that the size of him felt surprising. Even as wet as I was I gasped when he thrust inside me all the way on the first stroke. One hand held my head in place, and he watched me carefully as he drove into me again, waiting for me to tell him to stop or give him any instruction whatsoever.