Page 31 of A Guardian for Christmas

“You said Dr. White was a quack,” I tease.

“He is, but if you do have a heart condition, sex could theoretically be too much.”

I cover his hand with mine and move it an inch to the right. “See how fast it’s beating already? I feel fine,” I say, moving in for a kiss.

His mouth meets mine in a slow, sensual, growl-filled kiss. I know he doesn’t want things to escalate, just in case Dr. White is correct. But I can’t help but tease his bottom lip with my tongue. This man has awakened the long-neglected beast in me, and it needs to be fed.

I need to feel Sagan between my legs. Cramming into me, pushing me to the brink. God, how incredible that would be? I just know he’s got tattoos in places that would make me blush.

He pulls away from the kiss reluctantly. “You should sleep well tonight. You got plenty of exercise and a full belly.”

“You’re sweet,” I say.

“Believe me, baby girl, my resistance has nothing to do with me being sweet. You’d run for the hills if you knew what I wanted to do to you.”

My breath catches. “Suppose you tell me about those things while I touch you?”

Sagan laughs, then presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids.

“You’re gonna make me lose it, Esme.”

I press a soft kiss against his throat, my tongue lightly touching that tattoo. No timebo mala.

The sinews are so irresistible to me, I think about kissing his throat all the time. “That’s the idea.”

He huffs, “You’re a bad girl.”

“You started it.”

Sagan sighs and stretches out his arms. He must know how absolutely slutty he looks when he does that. As if that’s not enough, he rests his hands under his head, stretching out the bunched muscles around his pecs.

“Good boy,” I tease.

I move the sheet down to reveal the full mural of tattoos that cover his chest and stomach. Finally, I can read everything. Running my hands over his breastbone, I make out the words I spotted earlier.

“Negare Ego.”

“Denial of the ego,” he says, sighing. He sounds like a dog relaxing while being petted by his master.

“I’ve heard that before. It’s one of the main principles of Zen Buddhism,” I say.

“Say that in the form of a question and you win eight hundred dollars.”

“I love you for making me laugh,” I say.

We both go still for a moment, letting the L-word hang in the air.

“Don’t spoil the mood with overthinking, baby girl.”

I don’t know whether to give him a titty twister for that or agree with him. A twister would be a bad idea, considering he wears a small gold hoop in his left nipple. I tug the sheet down further, running my hands over another Latin phrase below that one.

“Affectum est Afflictio. Attachment is suffering.”

He grunts a laugh. “That one went out the window when I met you.”

I don’t know how to feel about that. If these philosophies truly helped him stay grounded while in prison, who am I to take them away?

Lightly, I run my fingers over the next one, just above his navel. Perceptio humana fallax est. “Human perception is faulty.”

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