Page 73 of Tempt

“An oral history of fucking,” Malice answers.

Aghast—and intrigued—she leaps forward and snatches his book, pouring over diagrams of genitalia, in addition to erotic positions that would baffle a contortionist. “Where in the Chamber did you find this? Amongst the texts on primitive celestial psychology?”

Malice retrieves the title from her, his gullet producing a grating buzzer sound, as though she has lost a point. “It wasn’t with the ‘head case’ books. Tsk, tsk.”

Wonder narrows her eyes. “Astral social behaviors.”

“Warmer.”

“Eternal anatomy and physiology.”

“Very warm. Impressively warm.”

“Mythic anthropology.”

“Hot. Hades hot.”

Wonder bubbles with mirth. She would ask how Malice knows what “hot” is, but then she remembers that he does know. He used to know very well.

For a second, she had almost forgotten this.

Nevertheless, on some intrinsic level, he still comprehends the sensation of warmth. She makes a mental note to inquire about temperature later. To know what heat is to Malice? That intelligence would be a delicacy.

Actually, she doesn’t wait. “What does it feel like?”

Malice’s visage rises, angling toward her. Uh-oh. He cannot be serious!

Again?

He chucks the book over his shoulder, the hardback landing with a wallop. “Why read or talk about heat when you can demonstrate it?”

Wonder chortles as he crawls across the sofa and tackles her. Her arms and legs welcome him, relishing the weight of his body atop hers. His tongue licks the seam of her mouth, then sweeps inside, flicking against hers until she’s disorientated.

The vellum book also hits the floor. Yet that’s when Malice pulls away, so soon after they’d begun. Far too soon for Wonder’s liking.

Hovering over her, he stares down, his face the epitome of wicked intent. He’s happy, as if a weight has been lifted.

He’s also aroused, his hungry pupils eclipsing the gray as he scoops her backside in his hands. “Soooooo, recap?”

Wonder cannot keep her hands off him, her touch wandering over skin and bone. After everything they’ve done, her friends would be appalled, offended. But her heart is another matter, rioting inside her chest because she loves what they did, and she dreads what they did.

She hesitates. “We should—”

“No, we shouldn’t,” he growls.

“Everything I confessed last night, everything you learned…the past…the present…and we have the legends to figure out…a mission to accomplish.”

“Christ, Wildflower. You can’t even wait until I have coffee?”

They’ve been up for a while, and there’s no coffee in the Peaks.

All the same, Wonder backpedals. “No nightmares?”

He swirls a lock of her marigold hair around his pinky. “None.”

“How do you feel? Did anything I said ring a bell? Any clear memories?”

That isn’t what she would call pacing herself. It topples out because now that he knows who he was, maybe he’ll recollect more.

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