Page 91 of The Fall Before Flight

My filthy unicorn.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I gasp with every breath.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours!”

“Nothing is going to come between us,” he growls. “I won’t allow it. You. Are. Mine.”

“Oh… God…”

I come so hard I see white. Leo is seconds behind me—hot breath on my neck and a low grunt in my ear. He collapses atop me. The weight of him is so epic I don’t care that I can barely breathe, and I even murmur a protest when he flips us over so I’m sprawled on his chest. Stroking the sweaty hair at my temples, he gently lifts my head.

“I love the look on your face right now.”

“Derrrf?”

His smile is smug. “Exactly. Freshly fucked. No guards up, no thoughts, just feeling.”

I smile and kiss his chest. “Shut up, Leo. I’m not thinking. Talking requires thinking.”

He chuckles and wraps strong arms around me, shifting us once more onto our sides. I bask in the afterglow, my limbs loose and warm, my face tucked against his neck.

“Amelia?”

“Hmm?”

“I meant what I said.”

“I know. My pussy belongs to you.”

He pinches my hip. “That, too, but I meant the other part.”

“Too much thinking,” I moan.

“I’m keeping you,” he whispers.

My heart swells, so full, so hot. “Okay,” I whisper back. “Can I keep you, too?”

“I’m already yours.”

A smile on my face and peace in my heart, I drift to sleep.

42

SPARKLE

Leo is horrible on a surfboard.

Really, really horrible.

Some people get on a board for the first time and take to it like it’s in their blood. Some cellular coding allows them to harmonize their bodies with the water and the board beneath them. There’s a learning curve, obviously, but it’s worlds easier for them to expand the new skill. I’m not an extraordinary surfer by any means, but I’m still one of the lucky ones. It’s in my blood.

The longest Leo has stood up is five seconds, timing courtesy of a hysterically laughing Vincent. He, on the other hand, is a natural. Up on his first try, even managing a few short trips on waves.

After his umpteenth wipeout, Leo paddles to where Vincent and I stand in thigh-deep water, our boards floating nearby. The sun is warm overhead, though we’re in full wetsuits because the water’s bloody cold in December.

Leo is understandably disgruntled by his performance, but he’s mature enough to laugh at himself. “So much for impressing you,” he says, hopping off the board and wiping water from his eyes.

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