The Dream Crafter(56)

Here she broke, her eyes now leaving his, breaking the chains of energy that looped them even when the physical touch had disappeared. Her hands were nervous little birds, fluttering in her lap as the words jumbled themselves on her tongue.

He tangled her fingers with his, stilling them and getting her attention. His voice was teasing when he answered, “You mean stay with you both? I don’t know…you haven’t cooked for me yet. Isn’t that the real test for staying with someone, if they can cook?

She giggled at that, bringing her hand up in front of her mouth as she was want to do, and that crushed his heart inside him, made it hard to breathe. The laughing slowed, and her smile gentled. “How about we save the philosophical questions, and you kiss me good morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward to wrap around her neck and bring her onto the bed with him. “That I can do.”

Her lips were cool, and he nibbled the top one to warm it up, bringing it in between his teeth for a gentle going over. She had the most delicious little mouth, a point of sweetness he could spend hours indulging himself in, and now, for this brief time between worries, he did.

Merc grabbed her by the waist and sat her on his lap, pulling her tight to him, so his arms enveloped her, so she was as close to him as their skin would allow. He wanted everything. He wanted her weight against him, he wanted the curves of her body to create matching hollows within his own.

And they did, because they fit, and whether it was because of magic or luck or destiny, it was as it had been the first night, where something in him recognized her, didn’t want to let her go, never wanted to be apart from her.

It was an awakening. I know you! it whispered. I’ve been waiting. What took you so long?

He pushed his tongue out, pressing against the seam of her lips and asking entrance, an invitation she extended, opening and meeting his tongue with her own, wrapping around with gentle strokes as she brought him deeper, allowed him to explore her.

Her stomach grumbled, breaking them apart. She drew back, her eyes wide and horrified outside of what the situation warranted, and bubbles of laughter escaped him, even as he fought them back with no luck, until she was joining.

“Okay,” Merc said, pushing her to the bathroom. “I’ll deal with breakfast. You go get cleaned up.”





Chapter Twenty-Eight




‡


The smell of garlic and onions wafted through the cabin, and Amana’s stomach grumbled in response. She stepped out of the bathroom, running the towel over her still damp hair. “It smells delicious,” she called down, and Merc looked up at her words, a smile coming over his face.

“It’s only a hash and scrambled eggs, nothing fancy.”

“Doesn’t change that it smells delicious.” She tossed the towel in the hamper and came downstairs to Merc plating the food, setting two plates across from each other at the small counter. The first bite was worth a moan of contentment, and before she took the second, she said, “I’d never have thought this of you.”

“What?” he asked, taking his own bite of food. His eyebrows furrowed for half a second before he gave a small nod and continued eating.

“Cooking your own meals. If you asked me, I would have assumed you lived on takeout.”

“I was responsible for making my own meals while I was training, and it stuck with me. Beyond that–” and he seemed to reconsider what he was going to say, sticking a bite of food in his mouth instead of continuing.

Like she was going to let him off that easy. “Beyond that?” she prodded.

He gave her a look, but rolled his eyes and after he swallowed, said, “Beyond that, I have plenty of people who’d like to get rid of me. Cooking my own food reduces the chance of poisoning.”

Well, that wasn’t a depressing statement, but with it, a pleased curl of emotion rounded her center, because this made his earlier teasing of her cooking for him so much more than a mere play on women cooking. It was instead a statement of how much was changing. “Why are you a mercenary? You said your teacher didn’t force you into anything.”

“No, he didn’t, and in some ways that was the worst thing he could have chosen to do to me.” He stabbed at the food, picking up a mixture of eggs and sautéed vegetables. “With the tattoos, I’m marked in ways that can’t be hidden.”

“I noticed.”

That got a small smile out of him. “I wasn’t suited for an ordinary life, but I had no one I was trained to serve. I had to find my own way in the world. I fell in with a gang for awhile, but–” He paused, grabbing another bite of food.