Page 18 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"Gabe," she breathes, her hands running the length of my spine. "Please."
"Tell me what you want," I whisper against her collarbone.
"You." Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking me up to meet her embrace in a fervent kiss.
I position myself between her thighs, and she hooks her legs around me with a needy strength, dragging me down into her. The moment I sink into her, we both still, reveling in the connection, the way her body grips and holds me in a slick, scorching embrace. The heat of her surrounds me, a greedy pull that makes my pulse stutter, every nerve lit with the visceral awareness that I am buried inside her, claimed by the tight, intoxicating clasp of her body.
"Okay?" I ask cautiously, observing the expressions on her face.
"More than okay." She grinds her hips against mine, and I can't help but groan. "More, Gabe. Please."
I begin thrusting at a cautious pace, ever mindful of my injuries but unable to completely restrain myself. As I pound into her, she matches each of my movements with equal force, her nails digging into my shoulders so deeply they're certain to leave marks behind. It doesn't bother me; I want to be marked by her, indelibly stamped by this instant in time.
The pleasure we share intensifies, compelling and powerful. I drag my mouth over her lips, along the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat, tasting the rush of heat rising through her skin. Each whispered plea, each shuddering moan drags me further in, urgent and irresistible, pulling every last shred of control from my body. When her breathing alters, growing more urgent, I change the angle of my approach and wrench a raw, unrestrained cry from her throat.
"There," she gasps. "Right there. Don't stop."
I don't. I maintain a steady rhythm, my eyes fixed on her expression as she approaches the brink. When she finally unravels beneath me, her entire body tensing before relinquishing control with a moan that transforms my name into something sacred, I succumb to the pleasure moments later.
After, we lie tangled together in her bed, my head on her chest and her fingers tracing idle patterns on my back. The room is warm despite the cold pressing against the windows. My body aches in new ways—good ways—and I feel more grounded than I have since waking up with no memory.
"That was..." I start, then stop because words feel inadequate.
"Yeah," she agrees quietly.
"Mara?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you." I lift my head to look at her. "For seeing me. For not being afraid of what I might be."
She pushes hair back from my forehead, her touch gentle. "I'm terrified of what you might be. But I'm more terrified of not taking this chance."
"What if my past…"
"Your past is yours to discover and deal with. But right now, in this moment, you're just you. And that's more than enough."
I kiss her again, slower this time. When we finally settle back into comfortable silence, her breathing evens out toward sleep. I make myself a promise: whatever comes next, whatever my past holds, I'll face it in a way that makes me worth the trust she's given me.
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows. Somewhere out there, people are looking for me. But tonight, in this bed, with Mara's warmth against my side, I let myself believe that some things are worth fighting for.
Her breath evens out completely, and I know she's asleep. I should sleep too, but I can't make myself stop watching her. The way the lamplight catches in her hair. The small scar on her chin. The rise and fall of her breathing.
I don't know who I was before. But I know who I am right now, in this moment. And that's enough.
7
MARA
Iwake to warmth and the weight of Gabe's arm draped across my waist.
The room is still dark, but I can see the first hints of light around the edges of the curtains. We fell asleep sometime after midnight, exhausted and tangled together, the fire burning down to embers as we talked in quiet voices about everything and nothing. At some point, Gabe got up to add more wood to the fire, then came back to bed and pulled me close. I remember the comfort of his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his hand traced lazy patterns on my back until sleep pulled me under.
Now, in the pre-dawn stillness, I just lie here listening to his breathing, feeling the solid presence of him against my back. The fire has burned down again, but the bed is warm, and outside the window, shades of gray and pink begin to paint the sky.
Yesterday feels like it happened to someone else—the attack, the contractors, the threats barely veiled behind professional courtesy. But the ache in my muscles and the scratch marks on Gabe's shoulders are proof that at least part of yesterday was very real.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens around me. Not awake, just instinctive. Even in sleep, he's aware of where I am, keeping me close. I should probably be worried—sleeping with a man who doesn't even remember his own past. But I'm not. I feel safe.
