Page 68 of Shadowfox

He shivered and reached up.

I shoved his hand away, selfishly wanting this moment for myself.

My other hand found his face, cupping his cheek before rising and entwining fingers into hair. He leaned into my touch, and his eyes rolled back before closing altogether. My heart soared. This man—this strong, independent, determined man—was always so in control, yet he surrendered to my touch as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And to us, it was.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to his.

He hesitated for only a moment before kissing me back, fully submitting to what we’d both longed for since crossing into enemy-controlled lands: passion and a great love born of a thousand tiny moments.

When his tongue found mine, longing drifted toward lust. I pulled his shirt over one shoulder, then the other, flinging it aside like some useless scrap.

As if in answer, Liszt’s composition reached a crescendo. The pace grew quick as my breaths shortened. Thomas dared reach up and grip my shoulders as I tugged at his hair.

“Tub. Now,” I breathed between kisses.

He stood, no longer fighting the moment. Our lips crashed together as he fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. Unwilling to wait, I started at the bottom and met him in the middle before tossing my shirt down and reaching for the buckle of his belt.

Heat flared in my chest as his hand slid between my trousers and flesh, his fingers finding the tip of my now-erect penis. It wept at his touch.

He licked me off his fingertip, then reached across the bed and turned up the volume on the radio. Liszt blared louder than an air raid siren, its notes a thousand times as sweet. Then Thomas, love of my heart, took my hand and led me into the bathroom.

27

Thomas

ThefirstthingInoticed was the light—thin and blue and pressing against the frost-laced glass. It bled through the curtains in slats, casting long bars of pale gold across Will’s bare back, where the sheet had fallen away.

He shifted, his breath steady, lips just parted, eyelashes still fluttering against some half-forgotten dream. One arm was slung across my waist, the other curled beneath the pillow like he always did—his elbow crooked, fingers curled. I lay still and watched him a moment longer, committing it all to memory, because in our line of work, thenowwas all we ever had.

Our previous night hadn’t been hurried or frantic. There’d been no fumbling between shadows, no whispered warnings or glances at the door. It had been just us, quiet and unguarded. Hands and mouths and skin. Passion and blessed release. Everything about our return from dinner had been perfect. Our only care had been to keep our voices—and groans—below the volume of our favorite Hungarian composer.

It had been a long time since we’d had that. It had been a risk. Two men weren’t supposed to sleep together—not that we did much sleeping in the tub—and Stalin was almost as unforgiving of homosexuality as Hitler had been. Still, the moment had been worth it. Will was worth it, worth any effort, any task, any risk life had to offer. He always would be.

I brushed his hair back, loving the feel of his strands against my fingers. He stirred again, and his eyes opened, sleepy and impossibly blue.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still sanded by sleep.

“You weren’t supposed to wake.”

“I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to do,” he said, stretching with a groan and blinking up at the ceiling. “What time is it?”

I couldn’t suppress a grin. “Half past sunrise.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

I trailed a finger down his nose, tapping when I reached its tip, then leaned down and kissed the spot. His smile bloomed, pure and unhindered, brighter than the sun streaming through our window. My heart soared.

Then his stomach growled.

“Is that a hint?” I asked.

He shrugged with his brows.

“Fine, let’s get you fed. I can’t have a hangry bureaucrat ruining my perfect day.”

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