Page 159 of The Shadowed Oracle
“But I never thought of it like that,” he said. “He was the fun one in my family, so I just thought every adult was either detached, or…” He dropped his head. “Crazy.”
Shifting closer, Ingrid slid her finger to meet the top of Dean’s shoulder, drawing a circle. “You think that’ll happen to me?”
“What? Going crazy?” Dean angled his chin to face her.
“I meant detached, like Karis. Losing touch with the human things.”
“I fucking hope note. I’m starting to get used to all your little quirks.”
“Even the bad ones?”
“Especially the bad ones.”
Ingrid’s fingers slipped from his shoulder, falling to the center of his back. Dean slumped into her touch, and Ingrid could feel the warmth of him through his shirt, the muscle rippling underneath.
“Which ones are your favorite?”
“I like your temper,” Dean returned immediately. “I like that you’re incapable of taking a compliment. I like…”
Ingrid waited for the next on his list, but it didn’t come. “Why’d you stop?” she asked.
“That was where you usually interrupt me,” Dean said. “I was waiting for the sassy, self-deprecating comeback.”
“Do you like those too?”
“Yes.”
Her heartbeat quickened. Mindlessly, suddenly, achingly, she slipped her hand lower, reaching underneath the material of his shirt and exhaling as her palm met his skin. She held it there, almost paralyzed as the reality of what she was doing sank in.
“I like your stubbornness,” Dean went on, as if nothing had changed, as if the barrier hadn’t even existed in the first place. “I like the way your nostrils flare when you’re mad. I like the way your right arm moves awkwardly when you run.”
“Hey!” She pinched him playfully. “I don’t run awkwardly.”
“Yes, you do.” He turned, astonished she didn’t know this about herself. “No one has ever mentioned that?”
“No. Which means you’re?—”
Dean didn’t let her finish. “Either I’m the only one with the balls to tell you.” He leaned in. “Or I’m the only one who watches you that closely.”
Ingrid’s voice caught, rapt by the feeling she’d been trying so hard to push away. A terrifying, dizzying sensation, but undeniably needed. The euphoria of getting out of the Isles alive, or simply because it had been so long, she needed the release of touch. Needed it not just for her pleasure, or for the simple desire. Akin to her magic aligning, she needed every facet of herself to awaken and be set free from the past. It felt as if her ability to go on in this new world depended on it. She needed to let that part of herself—affection, lust, basic intimacy—breathe.Let it live again after being buried with the trauma that had poisoned it long ago.
Dean hovered inches from her.
She emitted the smallest breath, inviting him.
And he feverishly lunged forward to meet her lips.
They held there, locked together. Ingrid’s hands explored the contours of his arms, his shoulders, his taut chest and sharp jaw. Dean returned the strokes with such vigor that Ingrid went from the initiator to the passenger in seconds. His hands framed her face as he slowly picked up the rhythm of their kissing. She parted her lips for him, gliding her tongue softly over his, losing herself to the grip he had her in.
Her hands slid to his abdominals, down to his thighs, and then up to feel all of him.
He groaned and pushed her firmly on her back, undressing himself on his knees before her. Ingrid ripped her own clothes off as she watched him. Dean’s eyes were wild, seized by pure animal instinct and causing a nearly imperceptible grin to tug at his cheeks.
He moved to his stomach, drawing a line with his lips from her thighs back to her mouth, worshipping her wordlessly before looking into her red and golden eyes. Ingrid returned the gaze, unflinching. Watching as he aligned himself, barely remembering to breathe.
She burned, anticipating the connection, twitching in suspense.
Then the room went black.
