Page 55 of The Unfinished Line

In other words: I was pretty sure I’d just transcended my body.

So, yeah, I guess I was alright. But, maybe even a little better.

“Is it still the twenty-first century?” I asked, slipping an arm around her neck and drawing her to me.

I hated that she was still dressed. I hated that there was fabric between us. But I wasn’t quite ready to move yet and just wanted to revel in the weight of her against me.

“Hate to break it to you,” she smiled, “but you’re still stuck in an era without robot butlers.”

I laughed, bringing my hand up to trace her jaw. “No BB8s or R2D2s? How disappointing.”

Her smile turned wry. “I’m not going to pretend like I know what that means, but I will say—you didn’t seem terribly disappointed.”

God. I don’t think such a simple look should have turned my entire body into liquid. Into lava. Into whatever it was I was feeling. I knew my flush gave me away, broadcasting my sharp U-turn from the space-age future, back to the present.

Still, I tried to play it off like she hadn’t just hand-delivered—mouth-delivered—whatever—the best orgasm of the decade… century… millennia… and I’m only stopping there because I don’t know what word represents the length of time that comes after. Epoch? Eon?

“What if I said the verdict was still out?” I teased, handing back her taunt from the night before, unwilling to feed the monster of her ego—though, if I’m honest, she deserved her own ticker-tape parade. Because, the way she made me feel… I hadn’t even known that was possible.

“Is that so?” She was still braced on her elbows, my hand casually toying with the short hair at the back of her neck. “Are you requiring further physical evidence to make a final ruling? Because I assure you,” her smile broadened, “I can provide more in-depth testimony for your consideration.”

She started to push herself upright, but I caught her arm, pulling her down beside me. I’d started to resurface from my post-climax bliss, and there was no way I was letting her move forward without my active participation.

“Excuse me, but I believe it’s my turn for cross-examination.”

I loved her laugh. I loved the retort that never reached the tip of her tongue when I bent to kiss her throat. I loved the way her breath hitched as my hands found their way under the hem of her shirt, her shudder when my palms reached her skin. I loved the way she tried to keep up her blasé demeanor as I clumsily undressed her, and the way her shallow breathing sold her out.I loved her patience with my tentative explorations, discovering every line and plane, curve and angle. The way she had to close her eyes. The way her fingers pressed into my hips, dragging me closer, closing the space between us. I loved knowing just how much of an effect I had on her by the quickening cadence of her pulse pounding in her chest.

And more than anything, I loved this world she had shown me—this piece of myself I hadn’t even known was missing. This feeling of being found. This feeling of being completed.

Scene 20

“And this one?” Kam ran her finger along Dillon’s forearm. “What does it mean?”

Dillon didn’t respond right away.

Kam’s cheek was pressed flat against her shoulder, her hair curtaining her breasts, the tip of her index finger mapping out the scattered tattoos across Dillon’s body. It was late—Dillon wasn’t certain of the time—but the Cimmerian darkness promised the impending arrival of sunrise.

If she was responsible, she would drag herself to the shower, go out for a run, something—anything—to make up for the lost day of training. But then again, if she was responsible, she’d probably be home in Wales, and have not spent the small hours of the morning putting on a show and tell of how to properly tip the velvet.

Piss it. Responsibility could wait a day.

But at the moment, Dillon wasn’t relishing this conversation.

Kam was asking about her tattoos. An innocent, curious investigation. Her fingers currently lingered over the short phrase running down her right forearm, handwritten in German.

Gewinn oder stirb beim Versuch.

Suppressing a sigh, Dillon translated. “Win or die trying.” She hated that even when she spoke the words aloud, it wasHenrik’s voice in her head.

Kam remained quiet, waiting.

Dillon knew she wanted more from her. She wanted a story, a comment, some elaboration, the same as she had done when Dillon teased her about the line drawing of a penguin she had found on her hip—a memento from Kam’s first trip to Vegas.

But these weren’t something Dillon wanted to talk about. Not here, at least, lying naked beside Kam in the king-size bed. Not on a night like this. She didn’t want to scare her away. Because where Kam saw ink and art, Dillon saw only reminders of all the mistakes she’d made.

So instead, she tried to appease her with crusts of the truth.

“I had a coach—the one I told you about—who was a firm believer of winning at all costs.” She made a fist, watching the letters twist with the muscles of her forearm. “The phrase was something he never wanted me to forget.”

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