Page 72 of Touch

His lips tilt, a divot appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

Attraction and desire aside, other feelings sneak into the cavities of her chest. Affection. Shyness. Two marvels rarely associated with her kind.

Gods and goddesses dote on one another in gluttonous, self-congratulatory, and vain ways. But they don’t nurture each other in this manner. Love ventures to make sense of her reaction, blood rushing to her cheeks as she curls into the mattress.

Andrew squats and peers at her. “Sorry about the pillow. I had to get you horizontal. It was the only soft object at my disposal.”

Love nestles into the down. “Next time, I’ll push back.”

“Counting on it.” His fingers float through her hair. “Now sleep.”

She shivers as though he’d tangibly slid a lock behind her ear. “I do not take commands.”

“And I don’t respond to threats. Do as you’re told, goddess.”

Tenacious human. Grinning, Love mutters that she isn’t tired. Even so, the tingles across her skin are either an illusion, the product of wishful thinking, or the result of Andrew’s fingers passing through her hair. With her eyelids growing heavy, she leans into this ghost of a touch until her eyes drift shut.

After what feels like minutes, Love’s lashes flutter open. Darkness enamels the sky, the hemisphere flecked with stars beyond the cottage walls. Flames crackle like balled-up paper from the central pit, the sheet caresses her profile, and Andrew hasn’t moved.

Reclining against the nightstand, he gazes sideways at her, fingers still brushing her locks in a lazy formation. “Better,” he whispers, appraising her visage.

Indeed, she does feel refreshed. And comfortable to the point of indulgent, from the effortless quiet between them to the safety of his presence. This man is spoiling Love, for he makes this cottage feel like more than an outpost.

The spectacle before her is just as luxurious an experience. The mortal has removed his coat, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a marvelous hint of clavicles and muscle, with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Most of all, a languid grin stretches across his mouth.

Andrew’s pupils flicker, his timbre husky. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

The only thing that stokes Love’s appetite is sprawled in front of her, the vision turning her into a cannibal. Shelongs to feed on this man and drain him of every sound, every respiration, and every drop of arousal he possesses.

All the same, there’s more to be said. The shame of what she has done to Andrew overrides her selfish, carnal impulses. Love sits up, the sheet spilling around her hips. “As I said, you’re not the only one at fault. What I did to the note, the words I spoke, how I behaved on the street, then at your house.” She swallows. “Forgive me? I meant none of it… and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for every vile utterance, every confession I’ve kept from you, and—”

“Love, you could commit a thousand felonies, and it won’t change how I feel about you.” Andrew drops his hand. “I don’t know how much of the kiss you saw, but it didn’t last long before I stopped it. Even so, I was imagining your mouth the whole time, which was the only vision that got me to participate, which pissed me off because let’s face it, you’re pretentious and entitled.” A disarming expression softens his face. “You’re also fierce and protective. You’re sensitive despite your antics, and you long for connections with others, even if you won’t admit it. You have a hard time saying you’re sorry, but when you do apologize, it’s sincere. We haven’t had much time together, yet I’m one hundred percent attached to your laugh, your voice, and each vicious word you say.

“I thought I’d have a choice with you, that I’d be able to walk away if you broke me. Except your proximity is a million times more potent than anyone I’ve ever known, like a drug I can’t stop overdosing from. I would rather be near you, see you touch everything but me, than be holding any other woman. That’s how much you’ve wrecked me. It’s all you, Love.”

Fates have mercy, Love’s head spins. How she wants to declare something equally profound, to fill his heart with the same declarations, yet she finds herself inadequate to the task. Nothing she expresses will measure up.

With Andrew gazing at Love this way, she had better not swoon. That would be outdated, undignified, and humiliating.

Her voice carries through the space. “I like you too. Very much.” Yet at the bland statement, she mutters an oath. “I fear I’m not as proficient as you in sentiment.”

His features are reverent, as though her response has ignited his universe. “Where you’re concerned, I don’t give a fuck about prose. All I want is your honesty.”

“I see. Then my reply stands.”

“Glad to hear it. So let’s talk about this.” Andrew raises his former black coat off the floor, then withdraws a leaflet patched with a glossy strip of tape. “And this.”

“I did my best to fix it,” she professes. “I never wished to defile your words. I brought them back to you one night.”

“While I slept,” he deduces. “I dreamed you came into my room. Your hand stroked my face, then halted beside my mouth. At one point, I think you almost touched my heart. You have no idea how much I was anticipating that, even while unconscious.”

Remembering how she’d made a fist above his heart, and how she’d forced herself not to trace that spot, Love ventures, “So you enjoyed the dream?”

“If you had woken me up, I would have shown you just how much I enjoyed it.” His voice thickens like syrup. “I might have even let you use the point of your arrow to draw blood.”

“You were furious with me. Yet I took liberties.”

He lowers the items. “Fury can be an aphrodisiac.”

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