Page 112 of Prodigal Son

She stared at him a long moment, rain dripping behind her, falling in a gentle silver susurrus against the tarmac of the roof, her face wildly alive by comparison. Brightness of her eyes, whiteness of her teeth, the jagged edge of her chewed lower lip.

And then she leaned forward, braced her hand against his chest, and kissed him.

In some ways he’d expected it. She’d moved in slow and deliberate, telegraphing the movement, eyes fluttering shut at the last second. But the press of her lips to his was a shock all the same.

What was this? he wondered. Her wanting a little comfort in a stressful time? One last kiss for old time’s sake? An echo of memory?

Or something new?

It didn’t matter. She wanted it, and so did he.

He reached up to cup the back of her head, and her hair was as soft as he remembered, slipping like silk through his fingers. All of it was as he remembered – the softness of her lips, the gentle confidence of her tongue, her little sucked in breath – but made sweeter by the ache of time lost. Their first night together, all those years ago, strangers staggering home from a pub, had been hot, and fast, and thrilling. But familiarity, he now knew, bred its own kind of excitement. Its own heat.

He knew that trailing fingertips down her throat would make her neck weak, and that she would sigh into the next kiss. That she would climb up into his lap if he stroked over her hipbones, even through her clothes – and she did. Her mouth was hot, and slick, and perfect, and he lost himself to it. Slipped his hands beneath her shirt to get to bare skin, soft, and warm, her belly sucking in in response to the coldness of his hands.

They warmed, though, as he shifted upward, cupped her breasts through her bra. Simple silk, nothing fancy; she’d always made practicality look sexy as hell.

She pulled back, breathless, lips shiny. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“Yeah.”

They helped one another up, and made it to the door, and down two flights of stairs like they were drunk, catching at one another, stumbling, pausing to kiss, to slide hands over one another.

Fox wondered if the walk, if getting out of that moment on the roof, surrounded by rain, and empty space, and danger, might bring Eden back to her senses. But when they got inside his room, and he’d shut the door, she was the one to initiate again. She wanted this.

“You sure?” he asked, because he had to know. A part of him, deep-down, needed, selfishly, to know that she was choosinghim, that she wantedhim, and not just an outlet for her stress.

She let her shirt drop to the ground, and stood there in black bra and jeans, still strong, fit, and lithely feminine as he remembered, hair wild from the humidity. She searched his face, and some of the hunger faded, replaced with something softer.

She walked up to him, and laid both hands on his chest. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen afterward. With us.” She reached to tuck a curl of stray hair off his forehead, smiling. “But we always got this part right, Charlie. I’m sure.”

He ducked down to kiss her, and her arms went around his neck, holding him to her.

They moved slower after that. Fox was shaking, and he didn’t know if it was nerves, or anticipation, but he wanted to do this right. They undressed one another, and he pulled the coverlet back, laid her down on the cool, clean sheets and resolved to take her apart with his hands and mouth.

It was Eden who got impatient, raked his back with her nails. “Come on, come on, I’m ready.” Breathing through her mouth, hair fanned out across the pillow, gaze heavy-lidded, desperate. She tightened her thighs around his waist, and he pushed in slow, biting at his lip, dizzy with sensation.

He kept his eyes open, wanted to watch her, wanted to stamp the image of her like this, back bowing, nipples pink and wet from his mouth, moaning softly, into his brain to keep forever. He loved her like this, undone and not sorry for it. Loved her when she enjoyed herself, and him, and what he could offer.

He loved…her.

Helovedher. Yeah, that was the name for it.

Probably he always had.

But like every other idiot member of his family, he’d spent his life running from good things. Things that would make him better, make him happy.

All he could do was love her now, the way she deserved, and pray it wasn’t too late for a second chance.

Thirty-Two

“Hold on, let me just secure it here at the bottom…there.”

Raven stepped back, and Mercy turned his head side to side, examining his reflection critically in the mirror.

She’d used a palmful of wax to slick his hair back along the crown, then braided it, tucked it under, and clubbed it with a bit of black silk ribbon. He’d shaved off his several days’ worth of beard scruff, and Raven had applied a very light, deft bit of shadow and liner to his eyes.

“What do you think?” she asked.

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