Page 131 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
When finally the culmination burst over her in a blazing white flare, she cried out his name, her body bowed with a pleasure so acute it was almost agony.
He pumped deep, hard and rough, letting his hips take over as she met his every thrust with her hips, coaxing him to where she wanted him to go. Then he stilled, his entire body flexed, and he moaned, his head thrown back, eyes closed.
She felt it deep inside her—throbbing, a spreading heat—then he shuddered.
“Say it again,” he begged, his voice broken. “Please—Jacqueline—”
“Always, only yours,” she wept, pulling him down with her hands on his face so they were staring into each other’s eyes as he twitched and groaned, his beautiful face flushed, dark hair falling over his forehead, down his cheeks. “Forever.”
He collapsed against her, wrapped his arms so hard around her she wondered briefly if there would be bruises. He kissed her wet face, her mouth, her eyes, turned his face against her so her tears dampened his cheeks, too. He said hoarsely into her ear, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, or ever will.”
And her heart, her poor hummingbird heart that had been broken so long ago and kept in a dark little box behind a thousand locked doors, was finally free.
Hawk had set her heart free, and it was soaring.
Jacqueline woke as the horizon was turning faintly pale in the east, and shifted her head on his arm. When she opened her eyes there was a moment of confusion, then recognition, and then they blazed with a heat that made his soul sing.
“I was having the most wonderful dream.” She burrowed closer to him beneath the blankets, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking his hand over the smooth satin curve of her hip.
“Hmm.” He nuzzled his nose into her neck, inhaling the sweet, soft scent that rose from her skin. Though he was tired from his flight, and hours of lovemaking, he couldn’t fall asleep; instead had just watched her all night, marveling.
Love. It burned hot as a swallowed sun within him.
“We were on a sailboat, out in the open sea. It was sunny and warm and the water was this amazing, crystal blue, and we were sailing right into the most beautiful sunset, all crimson and orange and purple and gold. You were feeding me figs, sips of wine, little bites of cheese—”
“A picnic on a sailboat at sunset. I had no idea you were so romantic,” he teased.
She blinked up at him, coy. “I’m super romantic, buddy. You’re going to have to invest in some poetry writing classes and guitar lessons, because I have high expectations. I mean, you can’t just throw me over your shoulder and toss me into bed every time the mood hits.”
He said, “Watch me.”
She pretended to pout. “I need some wooing, cave man! I deserve to be wooed!”
He rose up on one elbow and stared down into her face. He said quietly, “I want to spend every second of every day for the rest of my life with you, finding out what makes you happy, and doing it. I want you to have my children, and grow old with me, and love me until the day you die. I want to protect you from harm, and I will kill anyone or anything that ever hurts you. I want to shower you in love and worship you and I promise there won’t be a day that goes by that I won’t tell you how much you mean to me. I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?”
She breathed, “Oh,” and her eyes went wide.
He raised his brows, waiting for her answer. She nodded. He said, “Good. Consider yourself wooed.”
He kissed her, feeling the curve of her smile against his mouth. Then he rolled over and pulled her atop him, cradling her to his chest.
After a while, she whispered, “Okay, I admit that was some pretty great wooing.”
He stroked her hair off her face and shoulders, smoothed it down her back. They lay in silence for a while, watching the streetlights wink out with the first rays of dawn, until his gaze settled on an embroidered square of fabric hung in a frame on the wall. It was the only thing on any of the walls in her apartment, which suggested it held sentimental value. Which made him curious.
“You a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe?”
Her laugh was sweet and low. “I am now.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “But I wasn’t before. Morgan gave that to me. Remember, the present with the white bow? I think she made it herself, but I can’t be sure. She didn’t say.”
He looked again at the patch of fabric, stitched with a quote.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
“He was a smart man, ahead of his time,” Hawk murmured, trailing his fingers up the gentle bumps of her spine. “?‘Hope of the world made new,’ indeed.”
“Wait—you’re not telling me he was one of you . . . are you?”
He smiled at her. “One of these days I’ll make you a complete list. But in the meantime, we’re going to have to decide where to live.”
