J. Geissinger - Shadow’s Edge

He stroked her face, pushed a lock of hair from her brow. A few bright strands caught the light like threads of gold. She burrowed down next to him, sighed prettily, her head cradled on his arm.

“ Now I’m better,” she murmured, drowsy and lax against him.

He bent to kiss her, smiling another pagan, barbarian smile. Elation, triumph, and a piercing, fierce pride washed over him, relentless and dark as a hurricane.

Mine.

He’d carried her to his bed at some point during the night, though she hadn’t woken up for that, or anything else, until this very moment. She felt as if she hadn’t slept in years and was making up for lost time.

Jenna’s eyes came open to the dove-soft sheen of dawn beginning to lighten the sky through the windows of Leander’s bedroom. They were huge—like so much else in this manor house that was really more like a fortress—beveled panes of cut glass set in casements framed by heavy silk draperies showcasing the emerald-dark forest swathed in mist and shadows beyond.

His bed was massive as well, soft as eiderdown and deliciously comfortable. She felt warm and sated and utterly relaxed, like a ragdoll with loosened joints. She looked at Leander, solid and substantial and still asleep by her side, and a scotch-warm flush spread through her stomach.

He was beautiful as no other man she had ever known, burnished skin and sculpted muscle and potent masculinity laid over with elegant manners, perfectly at ease in his own body. Confident. Even in sleep he looked confident; a little, pleased smile curved one corner of his mouth.

The diffused morning light flattered him, though he didn’t need flattering, he was too perfect as it was. She lifted a finger and traced the outline of his dark eyebrow. The pad of her fingertip hovered just above the winged curve, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.

Beneath her finger, she felt the echo of his dreams.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on his heartbeat instead.

In the four days she and Morgan had spent together in her rooms— locked into her rooms, she sourly reminded herself—Morgan had shown her how to drown out anything she didn’t want to see or feel, to manage the glut of sensation that came flooding through her with the touch of flesh upon flesh.

Thank God she had. If not, last night—with Leander’s hands and mouth and body over hers, inside hers—would have been something very different altogether.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. Her finger moved from his brow to linger over the dented curve above his top lip, a cupid’s bow of perfect proportion.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to touch his body again, to spend long hours discovering it. She wanted to tell him all her secrets and fears and feel the hard length of him filling her, stretching and inflaming her until she lost herself to him, to the magic they made together.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about this—whatever this was. She thought, frowning, she might happily forego any further thought on the subject for as long as possible.

Forever, preferably.

Last night changes nothing , she told herself firmly, dropping her hand from its ghosted exploration of his face. Nothing at all.

The lonely cry of a hawk gliding through the bleached sky drew her attention back to the windows.

A curious surge of desire pinged inside her stomach as she looked at the forest. It was deep and primal, like a bass note plucked once on a guitar string. But the note didn’t fade; it held and grew and vibrated in her stomach as she stared at the line of trees rolling off into the distance over low hills. The sudden urge to feel the loamy forest floor underfoot was an itch, an almost irresistible compulsion.

“It calls to you,” Leander murmured. He shifted his weight on the mattress, sending a waft of scented, warm air to her nose, the delicious smell of his skin folded within it. The heat of his hand was heavy and real on her hip. “Doesn’t it?”

He opened his eyes and gazed at her with a look of hot, hungry knowing.

She blushed deeply, wishing she wouldn’t. The memory of the pleasure he gave her with his body, with his hands and lips and tongue, became a delicious sweetness in her mouth.

“The forest? Yes, I suppose it does. I felt...safe there. At home.”

“That’s because it is your home.” He stretched like a cat in the sunshine, drowsy and languid, yet capable of coming fully alert at any moment to devour a mouse.

Or her.

He settled back down against the mattress and slid his hand from her hip to trace a path up her spine, making small, stroking circles with his thumb. It sent currents of electricity coursing through her body.

“What do you mean?” she asked casually, trying to ignore the pulse of pleasure his hands gave her, even this—the barest stroke of his skin over hers. Here in the clarity of the morning sun, the memory of her wanton abandon from the night before seemed something very far away—and best forgotten.

He lifted up on one elbow to peer down at her with half-lidded eyes, a secret smile. Even partially hidden behind a fall of shining jet hair, his eyes gleamed like jewels refracting the light.

“You were born there.”

She sat up abruptly in bed. The white satin sheets slid down to her waist, her skin prickled as it met the cool air. She stared down at Leander with wide eyes.

“ What ?”

He dropped his gaze to her naked breasts then lifted his lashes to gaze at her once again. His smile deepened. He raised a hand to her cheek, watched its path as he moved it down her jaw, over her neck. One finger traced the delicate outline of her collarbone.

“What a lovely creature you are,” he murmured, bringing his finger down to skim languidly between the swell of her breasts. “Not yet five o’clock in the morning, and you’re already shouting at me.”

She pulled the pillow out from under his head and smacked him with it.

Leander fell back against the sheets with a muffled laugh. He reached out for her, found her waist, pulled her atop his body with the easy work of strong muscle. She scowled down at him as he pushed aside her hair and cradled her head with both hands. He gazed up at her face.

“Are you ever going to stop with the dramatic pronouncements?” she demanded.

Something in his face softened. He stroked a thumb under the fringe of her lower lashes then pulled her face to his, bringing their lips into delicious friction. She thought she might not be able to breathe with want, with the desire that rolled through her as she felt his warm body under hers, his lips against hers.

Then, as he stroked one hand down her back and traced a finger into the cleft between her bottom, she thought breathing might not even be necessary.

“I may have one or two more dramatic pronouncements up my sleeve yet,” he murmured. His gaze, pale green veiled with shadows, angled to hers. “Perhaps something involving a bent knee?”

It took her a moment of stupefied silence before she found her tongue and willed it to move.

“I’m not sure I can take any more of your surprises,” she said, unnerved. She lowered her head to his chest to avoid his gaze and listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat, trying to calm herself with the rise and fall of his smooth chest beneath her cheek.

“And besides,” she said, tart, before she could stop herself, “things involving men and bent knees usually involve questions, not pronouncements. And large baubles. Specifically diamonds.”

She swallowed, bit her lip, felt flame spread across her cheeks.

“All right then,” he said, amused and unrepentant. He smoothed his hands over her head, combed his finger through the thick cascade of hair spread over her back. “I’ll say something entirely neutral. Perhaps...good morning?”