Silver Basilisk - Zoe Chant Page 0,66

love. And so here I am, as old as the hills and twice as wrinkled, but I feel like a kid again. I don’t even know where to start.”

“I do,” he said in Spanish, as he held out his arms. “Sé por dónde empezar, mi amada.” I know where to begin, my beloved.

It was the Spanish of their youth, in his familiar voice—an intimate voice.

She had always thought Spanish one of the most beautiful languages on Earth, and in his voice it was liquid gold pouring through her as he closed his arms gently around her, speaking all the while, until at last she lifted her face to his kiss.

The first one was short, tentative. Each of them was mutely asking the other, is it all right?

The answer was yes.

The second kiss was long, so long it left her gasping for breath, her entire body trembling. On fire.

She looked up at him. “The last time you touched me, I was not even twenty,” she said tightly. “My skin is like paper. Old paper. Saggy paper. My voice, which was never a siren’s, is now a parrot’s squawk.”

“You are beautiful. Every part of you,” he whispered, tracing the line of her brows, then, delicately, the contours of her face. “This is you. Every laugh line. Every triumph, every sorrow, it’s all here, your story, everything you lived while I wasn’t there at your side.”

He kissed her again.

Her body had not forgotten, oh no. Places she’d thought had turned permanently to cold ash reignited into warmth, for the body wants what it wants.

Clothes fell to the floor. (And Rigo laughed with delight, his eyes smoldering when the purple lace panties and the hotcha-red camisole flashed out.) Hands explored, tongues clashed. She relished the rustle of the sheets as they fitted themselves together, the soft hiss of his hands over her skin. The tenderness of his touch fired her nerves with all the strength of those days when that skin was taut and young, but he caressed her as if she were and so she felt young again.

She wasn’t young. There were some oofs, and a laugh or two. Then some accommodations, for her tricky knee would complain, and the hip she’d used to balance heavy trays while trotting about on high heels for so many years was as crotchety as ever, but he was patient, and they laughed together, and took it slow.

“How’s this?”

“Mmmm . . . nice.”

“And . . . how’s this?”

“Way better, oh yes.”

“ . . . and this?”

“Ahhhh! Where’d you learn that?”

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha . . .”

Chapter 14

RIGO

When Rigo could think he wondered if one could go insane from joy, but there wasn’t much time for thinking. His mate had come to him at last, and together they ignited the fire that shot them straight to the realm above mere light and air, blending them into one until they spiraled down and down into bliss.

When he came back to himself, it was to the awareness of his beloved in his arms again. He looked down at the contours of her face, softened by a lingering smile. He settled back against the pillows, watching with deep pleasure as she slid into sleep. He closed his eyes, and began to drift . . .

Until his phone bleeped. That was Alejo’s tone.

Softly, carefully so as not to disturb Godiva’s slumber, Rigo reached over to pick up his phone. He thumbed it to life, and stared down in surprise:

Dad, I’ve got him.

You’ll never guess who it is.

Chapter 15

Godiva

In most of her dreams, Godiva was ageless.

This was one of those dreams. She was back in Hidalgo, only instead of the dirty, grimy town of memory, this was a sun-drenched, pretty Hidalgo that looked a lot like the old Spanish part of Playa del Encanto. And here was Rigo, riding his favorite horse, a pinto who loved flirting her tail. Rigo looked over his shoulder at Godiva, then swung around and galloped toward her, reaching down a hand.

She stood on tiptoe, hand outstretched to meet his. He swung her up behind him, and they began to gallop, straight into the sky, which brightened and brightened as she floated slowly up toward waking. She knew it was a dream, and cried out, No, no, don’t go. She wanted to hang onto that dream forever!

Like glancing shafts of sunlight, real memory broke through the dream images: Rigo’s heart thrumming near her ear as her head lay on his chest. The drift of his hands all over her body, which