“Maybe you’ll remember more about them,” Owen said. “Or at least about your mom.”
“I hope so. I still don’t know what she did for the Circle or why they had her killed.”
My gray gaze drifted up to a series of framed drawings behind the candles on the mantel. I focused on the first drawing, of a snowflake, my mother Eira Snow’s rune, the symbol for icy calm. Her matching pendant was draped over the frame, and the flickering candlelight made the silverstone snowflake necklace gleam as though it had just been freshly minted. The pain of her loss knifed through my heart, as it had a thousand times before, still as sharp and bright as her rune pendant, along with equally strong stabs of cold rage and icy determination.
“If my mother and Tucker were involved at some point . . .” My voice trailed off for a moment. “Well, that just makes me even more determined to kill him.”
“Why is that?”
I propped myself up on my elbow so that I could look at Owen. “Let’s say that Tucker had feelings for my mom, cared about her in some way, like Rivera claimed. Let’s say that Tucker even loved her at one point.”
“Okay . . .” Owen said, not quite sure where I was going with this.
“Then why didn’t he help her? Why didn’t he warn her that his boss wanted her dead and was sending Mab Monroe to do the job? Why didn’t he fucking save her?”
My voice cracked on the last few words, and I had to blink back the tears suddenly stinging my eyes. My heart ached and ached, each beat bringing a fresh wave of loss and longing with it, as though I were stabbing myself in the chest over and over again with one of my own knives.
“Oh, Gin,” Owen whispered, sympathy filling his face. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
I shook my head. “It’s not your fault. It’s his fault. And I’m going to make him pay for it—all of it.”
“I know you will,” he whispered again. “I know you will.”
Owen pressed his lips to mine in a sweet, comforting kiss, and I slowly lost myself in him. I couldn’t do anything about Hugh Tucker tonight, and I didn’t want to waste another second of my time with Owen thinking about the past.
So I focused on the man I loved, on the feel of his lips against mine, the warm brush of his breath on my face, the faint taste of chocolate and raspberries that lingered on his tongue from the cheesecake we’d eaten. I concentrated on each sensation, along with the slow slide of his hands up and down my back, until my heartache and rage faded away, melted by the growing heat between us.
We finally broke apart, and I nuzzled my nose up against his. “So . . . think we can finally get down to that funny business now?”
Owen laughed, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”
Our lips met again, and the familiar fire ignited between us. We kissed again, and again, and again, each meeting of our tongues longer and more intense than the last. We rolled around on the pillows, scattering them all over the floor, our hands roaming up and down each other’s body.
And that’s when we met the first bits of resistance.
“Stupid winter clothes,” I grumbled, yanking at the buttons on his jeans, trying to get them open. “Why are you wearing so many of them?”
“I could say the same thing about you,” Owen muttered, fumbling with my turtleneck, trying to shove it up out of the way.
We stopped, looked at each other, and started laughing. Our chuckles rang out through the den, growing louder and louder, and we collapsed onto the pillows again, both of us laughing as hard as we could.
“Okay, okay,” I said, when the last of our chuckles had faded away. “Take two.”
This time, we were far more sensible about things. We both stripped off our clothes, then came together in the middle of the floor again. But our laughter was gone now, and we were ready—hungry—for a different kind of teasing.
Owen grabbed a condom from his wallet and put it on, since we always used extra protection in addition to the little white pills that I took. I admired the rippling of muscle in his arms and shoulders, the sprinkling of dark hair that arrowed down his abs, and especially the hot, fierce light in his eyes as he turned toward me.
I got up on my knees, and we met in the middle of the floor, our lips and tongues thrusting together, our hands roaming, kneading and caressing all the sweet spots that each of us knew that the other liked. Hot, electric desire sizzled through my veins, and I couldn’t kiss him enough, couldn’t touch him enough, couldn’t get close enough to him.
Owen let out a low, primal growl deep in his throat, picked me up, and set me on the edge of the coffee table. I leaned back, and he feasted on my breasts, licking and teasing my nipples with his tongue and teeth. More heat spiked through me, and I groaned and pulled him down on top of me.
Owen’s hand slid down my stomach, and I opened my legs. He eased a finger inside me, drawing those slow, deliberate patterns that he knew drove me crazy. He pulled back ever so slightly, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth in time with his finger. I moaned with each glide of him against me.
I didn’t want to wait any longer, and neither did he. I put my hands on his shoulders and rolled us both off the coffee table and onto the floor. The pillows broke our fall, and we crashed together once more. I locked my legs around his waist and pulled him deep inside me, moaning at how good he felt sliding against me.
Back and forth, we rolled on the floor, kissing, caressing, and thrusting against each other, trying to wring as much pleasure out of this moment as possible. Our movements became more and more frantic, our kisses longer, our thrusts harder and deeper, until finally we both reached the peak of our pleasure and went over the edge together.
Bow-chicka-wow-wow indeed.
• • •
I woke up a couple of hours later, my arms still wrapped around Owen, the two of us cuddled together in the mounds of pillows on the floor. He was snoring, the sound vibrating out of his chest like a low, rolling drumbeat. I lay there for a minute, enjoying the feel of his warm, strong body next to mine and the steady, soothing thump-thump-thump of his heart under my fingertips.
“I hope so. I still don’t know what she did for the Circle or why they had her killed.”
My gray gaze drifted up to a series of framed drawings behind the candles on the mantel. I focused on the first drawing, of a snowflake, my mother Eira Snow’s rune, the symbol for icy calm. Her matching pendant was draped over the frame, and the flickering candlelight made the silverstone snowflake necklace gleam as though it had just been freshly minted. The pain of her loss knifed through my heart, as it had a thousand times before, still as sharp and bright as her rune pendant, along with equally strong stabs of cold rage and icy determination.
“If my mother and Tucker were involved at some point . . .” My voice trailed off for a moment. “Well, that just makes me even more determined to kill him.”
“Why is that?”
I propped myself up on my elbow so that I could look at Owen. “Let’s say that Tucker had feelings for my mom, cared about her in some way, like Rivera claimed. Let’s say that Tucker even loved her at one point.”
“Okay . . .” Owen said, not quite sure where I was going with this.
“Then why didn’t he help her? Why didn’t he warn her that his boss wanted her dead and was sending Mab Monroe to do the job? Why didn’t he fucking save her?”
My voice cracked on the last few words, and I had to blink back the tears suddenly stinging my eyes. My heart ached and ached, each beat bringing a fresh wave of loss and longing with it, as though I were stabbing myself in the chest over and over again with one of my own knives.
“Oh, Gin,” Owen whispered, sympathy filling his face. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
I shook my head. “It’s not your fault. It’s his fault. And I’m going to make him pay for it—all of it.”
“I know you will,” he whispered again. “I know you will.”
Owen pressed his lips to mine in a sweet, comforting kiss, and I slowly lost myself in him. I couldn’t do anything about Hugh Tucker tonight, and I didn’t want to waste another second of my time with Owen thinking about the past.
So I focused on the man I loved, on the feel of his lips against mine, the warm brush of his breath on my face, the faint taste of chocolate and raspberries that lingered on his tongue from the cheesecake we’d eaten. I concentrated on each sensation, along with the slow slide of his hands up and down my back, until my heartache and rage faded away, melted by the growing heat between us.
We finally broke apart, and I nuzzled my nose up against his. “So . . . think we can finally get down to that funny business now?”
Owen laughed, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”
Our lips met again, and the familiar fire ignited between us. We kissed again, and again, and again, each meeting of our tongues longer and more intense than the last. We rolled around on the pillows, scattering them all over the floor, our hands roaming up and down each other’s body.
And that’s when we met the first bits of resistance.
“Stupid winter clothes,” I grumbled, yanking at the buttons on his jeans, trying to get them open. “Why are you wearing so many of them?”
“I could say the same thing about you,” Owen muttered, fumbling with my turtleneck, trying to shove it up out of the way.
We stopped, looked at each other, and started laughing. Our chuckles rang out through the den, growing louder and louder, and we collapsed onto the pillows again, both of us laughing as hard as we could.
“Okay, okay,” I said, when the last of our chuckles had faded away. “Take two.”
This time, we were far more sensible about things. We both stripped off our clothes, then came together in the middle of the floor again. But our laughter was gone now, and we were ready—hungry—for a different kind of teasing.
Owen grabbed a condom from his wallet and put it on, since we always used extra protection in addition to the little white pills that I took. I admired the rippling of muscle in his arms and shoulders, the sprinkling of dark hair that arrowed down his abs, and especially the hot, fierce light in his eyes as he turned toward me.
I got up on my knees, and we met in the middle of the floor, our lips and tongues thrusting together, our hands roaming, kneading and caressing all the sweet spots that each of us knew that the other liked. Hot, electric desire sizzled through my veins, and I couldn’t kiss him enough, couldn’t touch him enough, couldn’t get close enough to him.
Owen let out a low, primal growl deep in his throat, picked me up, and set me on the edge of the coffee table. I leaned back, and he feasted on my breasts, licking and teasing my nipples with his tongue and teeth. More heat spiked through me, and I groaned and pulled him down on top of me.
Owen’s hand slid down my stomach, and I opened my legs. He eased a finger inside me, drawing those slow, deliberate patterns that he knew drove me crazy. He pulled back ever so slightly, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth in time with his finger. I moaned with each glide of him against me.
I didn’t want to wait any longer, and neither did he. I put my hands on his shoulders and rolled us both off the coffee table and onto the floor. The pillows broke our fall, and we crashed together once more. I locked my legs around his waist and pulled him deep inside me, moaning at how good he felt sliding against me.
Back and forth, we rolled on the floor, kissing, caressing, and thrusting against each other, trying to wring as much pleasure out of this moment as possible. Our movements became more and more frantic, our kisses longer, our thrusts harder and deeper, until finally we both reached the peak of our pleasure and went over the edge together.
Bow-chicka-wow-wow indeed.
• • •
I woke up a couple of hours later, my arms still wrapped around Owen, the two of us cuddled together in the mounds of pillows on the floor. He was snoring, the sound vibrating out of his chest like a low, rolling drumbeat. I lay there for a minute, enjoying the feel of his warm, strong body next to mine and the steady, soothing thump-thump-thump of his heart under my fingertips.
