Page 53 of Charmed

"Me?" Goddess, he was something else. There was zero awkwardness after their frenzied lovemaking. She'd expected at least a margin of weirdness, especially considering the hazard desperation, but no. He was his charming, affable self. "How is it my fault?"

"Need a list, do you?" He rolled them over and sat up, her in his lap. He pushed the hair from her face with both hands and held her head. "You get under my skin without even touching me. Arguing, taunting, or sassy remarks that may or may not even pertain to the discussion. Then you knock any sense out of commission by flirting, kissing, and groping. And all the while, you continue goading like being against you isn't enough of an epic distraction. A guy doesn't stand a chance of maintaining logical thought, never mind control, in your presence."

She sighed dreamily. "You have a way with compliments. Be still my heart."

"Your heart? Did you not hear a thing I just said?"

"Something about the floor being your orgasm's fault, but there was a lot of blah-blahing in there and—"

He smacked a kiss on her mouth, grinning against her lips. "I rest my case. I guess I should be grateful we're not upside down from the chandelier."

"Eh, next time."

A rough, affectionate laugh flowed from his mouth to hers, illustrating he'd given up and agreed at the same time. "I did get you to scream my name."

No kidding. Like she'd ever forget. "After we destroyed your room."

"Worth it," he mumbled and went in for another kiss.

Slowly, with utmost patience and care, he claimed her upper lip, then the lower. A gentle dip of his tongue, a retreat, and then another bare sweep told her what he was thinking when words weren't necessary. That they could ignite fiery passion, could lose themselves in mindless mating, could singe everything around them, but he'd be right here in the aftermath proving that's not all they could be.

His hands shook as he pulled away. He ghosted a kiss on her temple, lingering. Smoothing her hair, he cradled her against him. As the ensuing stillness engulfed, his chest hitched several times but, in the end, he didn't say anything.

With her in his arms, he lumbered to his feet and set her on the foot of the king size four-poster canopy bed. He snatched his discarded tee from the floor and dragged it over her head, then manipulated her arms into the sleeves while she cooperated in stunned shock.

Not only had he tenderly held her after they'd come together, but now he was...taking care of her. Just like he'd done the night she'd been hit by his uncle's potion or this evening when she'd collapsed using too much magick. Same as the time she'd ruined her knuckles on the punching bag in his gym or had cut herself in her kitchen.

There was a pattern emerging, and she couldn't accurately grasp how she felt about it. All her life, she'd relied on no one. Even with her sisters, she tended to stand beside them yet alone, doing everything on her own.

She should be affronted, pissed off he'd acted like she couldn't handle herself. But that wasn't the vibe she'd gotten from him, then or now. For him, his behavior was more ingrained. Involuntary response versus plotted reaction.

He opened a dresser drawer and stepped into a pair of black briefs. "Stay there for a sec. Let me clean up the glass so you don't cut yourself."

She watched him exit the room, then glanced around to get her bearings. Well, the drapes were still hanging over a set of balcony doors and the prints were in place on the walls. They hadn't done that much damage.

Unable to help it, she grinned. Riley Meath, the wildest, most attentive lover. Who knew?

Eyeing the books on the floor, she conjured wind and set them back on the shelf. She did the same with the photo of him with his brothers, righting it on the dresser. The lamp was a goner, though. Using a gentle airstream, she brought up all the glass shards from the floor and kept them suspended until he returned.

He paused over the threshold, a broom in one hand, a small wastebasket in the other. His brows shot skyward. "And here I figured all witches liked broomsticks." He leaned it against the wall and put the garbage under the floating glass. "All set."

She drew back the element, and the fragments dropped into the can.

He nodded and shoved the shade in afterward, dusting his hands. He turned toward the bed, but did a double-take at the photo.

Leaning against the dresser, he picked up the frame, studying the picture. "We were eight when this was taken." He turned it, showing her three grinning boys on the back of a boat. "Our dad died three days later." Solemnly, he refocused on the image. "I don't remember a lot about that day, but I do recall getting off the boat and spotting you with Ceara and your aunt on the beach. You were building sandcastles. It looked like fun."

Frowning, he scratched his jaw. "I never went over and said hello. We grew up on the same chunk of rock, went to the same school, lived next door to one another with nothing but a mass of trees between our estates, and yet we didn't speak." He looked at her, his eyes grief-stricken and confused. "Strange, isn't it? All these years, and we're just now circling each other's orbit."

"We played the part we were given, Riley."

"Maybe," he said, his tone distracted, and put the photo back. "I wonder how different things would be if I'd had the guts to walk across the beach, offered to hold your pail."

"I wouldn't have let you and probably would've given you the shovel instead."

He huffed a laugh. "I would've made you a great castle."

"And I'd have knocked it down to mess with you."

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