She had gotten used to sleeping with his arm holding her to him, breathing her in. Her nightmares and insomnia from before had become things from the past.
Tried to sleep.
Turned to the right.
Then to the left before her ribs reminded her that it wasn’t a good idea.
Back to the right.
The pillow was too hot. The sheets too cold. Her body too aware of the fact that it wasn’t curled around his.
She punched the offending pillow once, then flopped flat onto her back and glared at the ceiling.
“Stupid man,” she muttered. “With your ridiculous arms and your emotional restraint. Emotional restraint! More like the emotional maturity of a five-year-old.”
She rolled to her side again.
“Brooding bloody martyr. Fucking wanker.”
Flipped the pillow.
“Acts like a monk, then sleeps like the dead, but spoon-humps me for five nights straight, then ghosts me like he is Casper the friendly fucking ghost.”
She groaned into the blanket.
“Cockblocker. Grade-A, designer-grade cockblocker. Can’t even have a proper fantasy without you turning up with soup and puppy eyes.”
Another turn.
Another huff.
“Thinks he’s so noble. Probably writing a damn thesis in that guest room. Bet he’s got a spreadsheet titledWays to Torture Faolan Without Technically Doing Anything Wrong.”
She rolled onto her stomach and groaned into the mattress, smacking her hand against it in frustration.
And still, under all the grumbling, the muttering, the seething want, her body ached for him. Grew wet for him. That low, ever-present curl of desire that had gone from an occasional flicker to a permanent, insistent presence since he’d started treating her like she was everything that mattered.
Damn him.
Damn his fucking restraint.
Damn his scent still clinging to her skin.
She kicked the covers off. Why should he sleep in peace? He was going to take care of this, then he can do whatever the fuck he wants.
She was done waiting.
If Thane thought he could continue this strange courtship from a safe distance, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.
She made a quick detour to the kitchen before bearding the lion in his den. He was in the guest room, shirtless, one arm slung over his head. There were bruises on his ribs from the fight and his left eye was almost completely swollen shut, but he wasn’t asleep.
She hesitated for a second before she tiptoed to the bed.
She pulled her shirt off first, then her shorts. His right eye opened to shine gold in the low light as she slipped under the blanket.
“Faolan,” he breathed like a prayer to the gods.
She straddled him slowly, hands braced on either side of his face, her eyes locked on his as she reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his length. He gasped, already hard, his hands gripping her thighs.
