Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3)(63)
Author: Caris Roane

He thumbed his phone and relayed Carla’s part of the conversation. Once more, he gestured with his fork to Parisa’s bowl. “Now eat. And no more discussion.”

She grinned at him over a lump of sausage. When she’d taken another sip of wine, she said, “You’re a wonderful cook and this is just heaven. Fresh basil?”

He nodded. “I grow it in the herb garden.” He gestured to the west wall. “I have a garden back there.”

She held her wineglass by the stem and swirled. “You’re a renaissance man.”

He shrugged. “I like to cook. We had good food on our farm in Italy all those years ago. We had a vineyard and an olive grove as well, like I do here. I’m thinking about having a wood-fire oven put in.”

She glanced around the space. “Where?”

He waved a hand to his left. “I’d like to take out this entire bank of cupboards and counter and start over. I want to push this wall out, add French doors that will open onto the garden. I made the mistake of planting the garden out there, where the only access is going through the foyer doors to the back terrace. It’s not that far but it’s not convenient either. Besides, I’d like to have a view of the White Tanks from this room.”

She nodded and sighed. “Sounds like a good plan.” Her shoulders looked a little slumped. Well, a good meal, red wine, and trauma would do that to a body.

He shifted his gaze away from her. She needed to get some rest, he could see that. He felt uneasy because he was torn down the middle. The breh-hedden wasn’t just a sexual entity but demanded that he think of his woman in all respects, one of them being that she needed her rest. But the other half of him was a long drive of need that he’d been keeping a lid on, oh, hell, from the last time she’d left his bed.

Dammit.

He pushed his empty bowl away and planted his elbows on the soapstone. “You probably could use some rest right now,” he suggested, still not looking at her. He cleared his throat. “If you want to sleep in the guest room, I really would understand.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything.

***

Parisa tried to interpret this suggestion, but her mind had switched from alertness to one big mud slide of lethargy. The meal, as wonderful as it was, had acted on her like a sedative.

She released a heavy sigh and put her wineglass back on the soapstone. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”

He glanced at her, his gaze open, speculative, wary.

She frowned a little. “Are you mad at me?”

His eyebrows shot up. “No. Never.”

She smiled at that. “Never? You’ll never be mad at me, ever?”

“Well, not right now.” He smiled as well.

“Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?”

“Honest?”

“Yeah. Honest.”

“Hell, no.”

At that she laughed. “Why did you suggest it then?”

He looked away almost like he was embarrassed. But by what?

She put her hand on his forearm—and the moment she touched him a soft buzzing sensation, a delicate vibration, ran through her hand. She stared at her hand and his skin, at the fine black hair. Her fingers drifted over his arm, savoring the muscle beneath and the texture of the hairs above.

He was so masculine, every bit of him, every line of him, and the hardened feel of his warrior muscles started waking her up but this time in an entirely different way.

She lifted her gaze to his and caught the roll of his scent, sage and all his wonderful maleness. She started sliding off the stool without even realizing she was moving, until she stood with her hips against the side of his. With her hand she started low at his waist and climbed, beneath his long hair, feeling both the gentle dips and swells of the scar tissue on his back as well as the larger, harder mounds of muscle.

He flinched and she pressed the tips of her fingers into the scars. “This is part of you,” she whispered. She pushed his long hair away from his back. He had tensed up, maybe uncertain, maybe ashamed. She leaned over his back and began to kiss and lick the stripes he bore.

He shuddered and leaned forward.

She slid her hand off his forearm then moved to stand behind him. She split his long black hair into two parts and pushed each part over the closest shoulder. She looked at his back in the soft candlelight. His wing-locks were visible as well as his scars. She drew close then took a deep breath.

Your skin smells of sage and something very male, she sent. It makes me … hungry.

He groaned and aloud, said, “Tangerine.”

She drew back. “Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Tangerines.”

At that, he shifted toward her, turning so that he could meet her gaze. His lips were swollen with need, his eyes dark. He nodded. He started to rise but she pushed him down with her hand. “Tell me where they are. I’ll get them.”

“I put the last batch in the fridge, the drawer on the bottom.”

She rounded the island, opened the refrigerator door, and found them. The cool air flowed over her skin, tightening her ni**les. As she drew one of the tangerines out, she blushed at the very wicked idea that had taken hold of her.

She closed the door then turned toward Antony. He stared at her unblinking, his chin low. His palms were now flat on the soapstone. He looked ready to spring at her, land on her, take her to the floor.

She set the tangerines on the island. She pulled off her shirt but kept her bra on. With a knife she split one of the tangerines in half then pierced the fruit with the sharp tip again and again, grinding the blade into the wedges, tearing up all the connecting fibers, until the half tangerine was a wet, pulpy mess.

She set the tangerine on the counter, put her knife in the sink, and rinsed and dried her fingers. Very slowly, while watching Antony’s face darken, she lifted each of her br**sts out of her bra so that she was supported by the underwires. She didn’t want to think of exactly how this looked—but she knew Antony. He was loving this.

She lifted the tangerine and held it low to the tip of her breast and slowly brought the juicy center to float over her peaked nipple. Tangerine juice dribbled down her abdomen.

She watched him, his gaze flooding with heat and something like pain. His arms fell wide. His chest rose and fell. Damn, he would hyperventilate if she didn’t do something.

“You stay right there,” she said.

He nodded, one deep low nod. She moved around the island, the tangerine still rotating, his gaze fixed to the sight. When he breathed, he now made a sound like a train engine.