Page 7 of Star-Crossed
Above the elegant arch of her foot, the severe crease of navy-blue trousers made a sharp line up her shin and softened only slightly when meeting a knee whose exact circumference had been imprinted in his palm.
It had been the first place Cy touched her.
Next had been her thigh, whose curve was—like her hips—mostly hidden by the trousers’ wide cut. The blazer and blouse beneath it seemed designed with a similar purpose in mind, the dip of her waist and swell of her breasts barely hinted at beneath layers of silk and wool. Expertly tailored to make her an elegant composition of angles whose edges failed to hone the surge of ardor that seemed to rise from the soles of his feet.
“There you are.”
From the direction of Lyra’s steely gaze, it wasn’t exactly clear whether it was Cy or the cat that was the target of her rage.
Cy looked up, and seven long years vanished in a blink.
Electricity thickened the air like leaf smoke. Invisible, yet touching every molecule of the atmosphere between them.
He’d heard a million trite phrases dedicated to this very sensation, but had only felt it one other time. In the back of a bus barreling through the Snoqualmie Pass in the early hours of a Sunday morning.
Cy recalled that the body supposedly replaced all its cells every seven years, one of the few pieces of information his impact-addled brain had retained from high school biology.
Then surely what he felt now had to be phantom pains.
Her breath on his neck. Her mouth, wet, hot, and heady as young wine. Her hips digging into his belly. The hard mound of her pubic bone rocking against the sweet ache straining his jeans. The sharp pressure of her nails digging into his back.
The sudden force that sent them tumbling into the aisle in a tangle of limbs.
“Just hand it to me.” The coolness of her words was just the slap Cy needed.
It.
Clearlynota cat person.
Which didn’t surprise him, given how catlike Lyra was herself. From the leonine golden-green eyes and capricious temperament to the unstudied, slinky grace.
Not to mention an unusually abrasive tongue. Unlike the power suit, this was not of a new vintage.
In fact, her ability to verbally eviscerate their classmates had been a significant factor in the circumstances that lead to their fateful vehicular clinch.
As did that tongue’s aptitude for playing the bassoon, which his teammates had insisted was pretty much the woodwind equivalent of a blow job.
“I’ve got it.” Gemma stepped forward and, thank fuck, reached down to slip her hands under the cat’s shoulders without Cy having to shift. She held the animal out in front of her with stiff arms to avoid the helicoptering lower half as she carried the creature inside. “I’ll put Larry in the massage room.”
“Make sure you put the water and litter box in there too,” Lyra called over her shoulder.
“No food?” Cy asked, half teasing to distract her as he gripped the porch railing to get to his feet.
Her lips flattened into an unamused line. “We’re transitioning Larry away from free feeding.”
Cy would bet his limited-edition onyx Wyrmwood Dungeons & Dragons dice that she’d researched optimal feline care when she learned that Star-Crossed came with a four-legged bonus.
A fact that she didn’t appear to be altogether pleased about.
“So how long is this going to take?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
Cy felt his forehead crease. “How long is what going to take?”
“For you to saw the root out or whatever.” Lyra gestured vaguely in the tree’s direction.
“Well, first I have to figure out exactly what the problem is.”
She heaved a beleaguered sigh. “As I mentioned on the phone, there’s a root that’s grown into one of the pipes connected to the first-floor bathroom. In order to fix it, you’ll need to—”
