a future. No female would be with the likes of him for long.
But they had this moment right here, right now.
“How about we both get pleasure,” she murmured.
Reaching up, he touched the length of her red hair, running his soldier’s callused fingertips down the locks that fell, softer than water, more beautiful than moonlight, even rarer than gems and gold, upon her shoulder.
Tilting up, he put his lips to hers and stroked her mouth with his own. He went slow, and not because he wasn’t desperate. He was panting for her and they hadn’t even started yet. The truth, however, was that he wasn’t sure how to do this, where to put his mouth, his hands, his body. He had touched females before, back in the nights when he’d been mining the depths of his impotence, trying to find the end of it— before he’d realized it wasn’t who he was with, but himself, that was the problem. Back then, he’d never worried about being suave, or having moves, or even about pleasuring the one he was with. They had always taken what they wanted of him, and not one had been bothered when he had told them he couldnae finish. He had been used, and he hadn’t minded the using.
To be offended by the likes of that, you had to have self-respect.
“What do you like?” he said as he sat up and switched their positions, shifting her over and settling her across his thighs.
As Jo sprawled in his lap, he liked the way her hair licked over the leathers that covered his lower body. He liked the swell of her breasts beneath her simple shirt. He liked the way her legs stretched out. He liked the fact that there was much to look forward to.
Such as undressing her and mounting her.
“I like kissing you,” she said.
“Then we shall do more of it.”
Syn eagerly complied with her request, and as their lips met once again, he allowed his hand to do what it wanted—which turned out to be travel down her throat to her collarbone . . . to her shoulder . . . to her waist . . . to her hip. As he further learned the sweetness of her mouth with his own, he took his time with the lushness of her body. He knew they were building something resplendent in this intense, quiet space, a construction that would shut out the world, if only for a short time. Upon this desire they shared, they would layer upon layer a temporary sexual fortress against the pain and strife of the outside, of the past . . . of the future.
For he knew that theirs was not a longtime thing.
He wasn’t made for that.
Losing himself in sensation, his fingertips went to the top button of her shirt, and as he started to unfasten the disks, she arched up and sighed into his mouth. It was hard to keep from ripping the blouse apart, but he wasn’t going to do that. For her, he would be different than he truly was—
Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe.
The shirt halves fell open, exposing creamy curves covered by exactly the kind of sensible bra he knew she would wear. She didn’t need lace. She didn’t need frills. She didn’t need anything but what was underneath to be sexy. Erotic. More than he could ever want.
Syn was careful as he took her shirt off, because he was very aware of how delicate she was compared to him. She was not weak, but he was brutally strong and he would never forgive himself if he hurt her or any of her things.
The purr in the back of his throat was a surprise to him. And when she laughed in satisfaction as the sound rumbled out of him, he felt warm in places that had nothing to do with sex.
But then he refocused. Particularly as she released the front clasp of her bra.
And that was when things changed.
No more slow. No matter what he told himself.
With a growl, he lifted her up so she could straddle him, and taking his lips from hers, he nuzzled into the side of her throat—and kept going. Driven by sexual instinct, he went down, down . . . to the swells that were tipped pink and tight, just ripe for his mouth. Sucking her nipple in, he tightened his hold on her waist as she gasped and grabbed the nape of his neck.