He refused to budge from in front of her. “You’re barefoot.”
“Bastien”—she wished she could growl, too—“you are not carrying me again.” She was an independent adult female and it was critical Bastien see her that way, not as a weakling he had to cosset. “Move,” she said, and when he simply folded his arms, she gave in to the strange, overwhelming urge to bare her teeth at him, the sound that emerged from her throat perilously close to a snarl.
“Now you’re trying to get me into bed.” His grin transformed her near-feral annoyance into a sense of happiness so strong it didn’t seem possible it could exist . . . happiness because he was hers.
Eyes still night-glow, Bastien unfolded his arms. “I’ll give you a piggyback ride. Come on.” Turning to get into position, he shot her an “I dare you” look over his shoulder that made her want to nip at his mouth, draw in the scent at the crook of his neck.
He was playing with her, she thought all at once, delighted.
Unable to resist, she stood on the edge of the car door frame and wrapped her arms around his neck. He hoisted her up with effortless ease, muscled arms locked under her butt. Burying her nose surreptitiously in his neck, she cooperated when he turned and asked her to push the door shut with her foot, the car locking automatically.
Then he strode down the street while she grew drunk on the exhilarating soap and skin and maleness of his scent, and battled the urge to use her teeth, to bite down hard. So he’d be marked. So everyone would know he was hers. Then she’d tear off his clothing with her bare hands, kiss and touch and lick, embedding her scent into his skin, ensuring that even after one mark faded, the other would remain.
Skin flushing at the untamed possessiveness of her thoughts, she nonetheless held on tight, her bones melting at the feel of his strong, hard body moving against her own. When an older couple strolling by smiled at them, she smiled in return, feeling truly young for the first time in her life.
The world might be in a state of turmoil as a result of the recent Psy civil war, but Kirby’s much smaller world was filled with a joy she’d never known.
“How’s the service?” Bastien asked a few seconds later.
“Passable.”
“Careful.” It was a growled warning, a squeak escaping her throat as he pretended to drop her. “You don’t want to make the driver mad.”
Oh, I adore you.
Her need for him an ache deep within, Kirby surrendered and nuzzled his neck. While she was free with reassuring hugs when it came to the children she taught, it was hard for her to show affection in her personal life. No one had ever welcomed it from her. Bastien did. Angling his neck in a silent request for more, he made a sound that vibrated against her upper body.
An ear-to-ear smile broke out over her face. “You purr!”
“Maybe.”
Delighted with everything about him—including the protective bossiness that had made her snarl—she held on as he ran up the steps to the door of her building. She’d expected him to take the elevator once they were inside, but he jogged up the three levels to her place without breaking a sweat or losing his breath. It was a stunning display of strength, throwing the deceptiveness of his usual lazy prowl into stark focus.
Kirby couldn’t help but imagine how he’d move against her . . . in her, in a far more intimate setting, all power and strength and healthy golden skin rubbing over her own.
Butterflies in her stomach, her lower body molten.
“Hey, now.” A rumbling wave of sound against the taut tips of her nipples. “Don’t be thinking those things tonight. You’re going to rest.”
Cheeks burning, she pressed her palm to the scanner beside the apartment door. “How did you . . . ?”
“I’m changeling, little cat,” he reminded her. “I can scent you”—a deep inhale—“and you’re delicious.”
Certain she’d die of mortification, she wiggled off his body the instant they were inside. “That’s so unfair,” she said, not meeting his gaze.
Wrapping one arm around her waist, he hauled her flush against him, the thick heat of his arousal pushing aggressively against her belly through their clothing. “How’s that?” Pure wickedness in his smile. “Fair enough?”
Kirby went to respond, found her mouth claimed in a kiss sumptuous and lazy, Bastien’s tongue stroking slow and hot over her own. As if he had all the time in the world to kiss her, as if he was savoring the taste of her.
Making a complaining sound in the back of her throat when he broke contact, she rose on tiptoe, hands fisted in the dark red silk of his hair. He groaned, his mouth opening over her own and his palms skimming down her sides, their second kiss as opulent as the first, both their chests heaving by the time he raised his head again.