Chapter Thirteen
The dream tightened its hold, driving Forge into thick fog. Swiping at the ashy swirl, he struggled to find his way through the smoke: to level his wings, to feel the rush of air and bring the landscape into focus, but . . .
He growled through clenched teeth.
Zero visibility. Nothing but gloom and shadows.
Pushing forward, Forge narrowed his view and tried again. His vision wavered. Light flickered behind the fog and—goddamn it. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. Indistinct images flashed in his mind’s eye, then faded, lost forever in the mounting chaos.
He knew it was coming. Had cataloged every detail of the memory/dream each time it invaded his sleep . . . though it never picked up in the same place. Sometimes it started inside the mountain lair, with him sitting in the kitchen eating his mother’s shortbread cookies. Other times, the dream began as he leapt from the cliffs. Or like now, as he approached the moors, wings spread wide, winter wind in full bluster.
He felt the rise and fall—the prickle across his scales, the ping of his sonar, the call to arms—as his heart raced and the enemy approached. Different sleep cycle, same frustration. Each time he reached Conn and Droztan, and the banter began, his mental screen went blank, as though someone had turned off a TV. Hit the abort button. Made everything go black. Leaving him flailing, without any idea which way to fly. Or how to protect his brothers.
Fucking hell. He despised the blindness, the utter darkness inside the dream. Oh, he heard the words well enough. Knew he talked and his brothers answered, but his mind refused to provide a visual. Just when he thought he might get something new, recall escaped down a black hole, holding the truth out of reach. Goddamn the blankness. He needed to remember the attack. Tunnel deep enough and unearth the memory of what happened the night his family died. Maybe then he would understand. Maybe then the pain would stop. Maybe then peace would find him and stay awhile.
But as the ash continued to swirl, desolation battered his defenses. No matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t clear the mind-fog. Couldn’t shift inside the dream or find a better view.
Why he kept trying, Forge didn’t know. Force of habit maybe. Pure stubbornness more than likely, but . . . shite. It was useless. Impossible. The important details beyond his ability to grasp. Bile churned in his stomach. His throat went tight. Forge swallowed past the awful burn. It never got any easier and . . . Bastian would be disappointed.
Again.
Like always.
Still more asleep than awake, Forge hugged his pillow tighter. The downy feather-filled body squirmed, tweaking his senses before the dream dragged him back under. He inhaled, letting his lungs fill to bursting before exhaling again. In. Out. Breathe, hold, release. The extra oxygen centered him. He fine-tuned his focus. One more time. Another try. A harder push, just a minute or two, then he’d give up. Admit defeat. Accept failure. Let the day wake him fully and—
The pillow twitched again.
Forge frowned in his sleep as confusion set in. What the hell was that? Something new? A detail not yet unearthed, surfacing inside the dream? Could be, but . . . huh. Odd. He could swear someone lay beside him, pressed up against his chest. Long hair brushing his face. The softest skin imaginable. The quiet rush of a feminine sigh. Which was, well . . . wrong. Females never showed up in his dreams. Chaos, murder, and pain arrived instead, torturing him with glimpses of his past. Still, despite the idea he must be mistaken, he couldn’t shake the sensation. He focused harder. She inhaled, then exhaled. Her chest rose and fell, keeping time with his.
Forge drew her closer.
Hmm, nice. A dream girl to keep him company, one who felt lust-revving real.
Arms wrapped around her, he shifted his hips. A curvy body wiggled against him. His body reacted, hardening so fast Forge tightened his hold. Mine, all mine. The words whispered through his mind. Hmm, aye . . . his. His to hold. His to keep. His to fuck anytime he wanted. The thought set him in motion. His hand ghosted up her rib cage. The T-shirt she wore bunched against his forearm, rising as he explored. Soft skin slid beneath his fingertips. He reached her breast and played, stroking the underside of her gorgeous curve before turning his hand to cup her. Bliss poured through him. Bloody hell. Just right. A perfect fit, a round, flawless handful. He brushed his thumb over the top, learning her shape, caressing her skin, sharing his heat.
She purred.
He stroked her again.
Powerful bio-energy flared as the Meridian woke, opening a channel deep inside him. Electrostatic current spilled into the void, rising like a tidal wave. His dragon half snarled. Ravenous hunger blurred his focus, making him burn and . . . crave. God. He was starving, so needy he couldn’t think straight, never mind stall his reaction. Something, though, told him he should. Instinct, maybe. A strong sense of integrity, perhaps. The need for more information, without a doubt. An honorable male would ask himself questions—Was he still dreaming, was she real, should he be tapping into her energy stream without asking first?
Valid concerns. All good points.
But as his dream girl welcomed him, shifting closer, flooding him with sensation, Forge lost all sense of himself. Right. Wrong. Who cared which side he landed on? He was hungry, and she tasted fantastic, her essence so compelling he couldn’t get enough. He needed more. All she gave him. Every last drop.
Giving in to his beast, Forge set his mouth against the side of her throat. Pleasure exploded through him, fizzing up like a bottle of shaken soda. With a moan, she raised her chin, granting him access, encouraging him to feed. Baring his teeth, he bit down gently, scraping her skin, holding her immobile against him. She shivered and linked in, strengthening the connection, zapping him with white-hot energy. He groaned and drank deeper, pulling mouthfuls from the source that fed his kind. Life-giving nourishment flooded him. His dragon half hummed in approval, enjoying the rush as magic crackled in his veins. The current whiplashed, turning full circle, forming restraints, shackling him to the female in his arms.
With a groan, he took another sip.
She turned her head, rubbing her cheek against his. Delight spun through him. Such open affection. Perfect acceptance. Had a female ever felt so right? Suited him so well? Or fit so beautifully in his arms? A resounding NO thrummed through his head, shaking his slumber. Forge sighed. What a shame. He didn’t want to acknowledge the truth—or wake up yet. He wanted to stay with her longer. Forever. All day, if possible, and wallow in her presence. A lovely thought. The perfect strategy, but for one thing. His mind was coming back online, turning him toward an important fact—she couldn’t be real. The dream. He was dreaming, letting his mind invent a fantasy female to protect him from the truth.
A good hypothesis given he always slept alone.
And yet, he refused to let her go. Just a few more minutes. Another sip of her energy. More of her intense vibe. He thumbed her nipple, waking the small bud and . . . aye. Forge sighed. More of touching her as well.
With a rumble of contentment, he buried his nose in her hair. Thick strands brushed his mouth. Her scent swirled around him. His lips curved. She smelled delicious, like the cinnamon buns Daimler baked for him each afternoon. He growled against her temple. The female jerked against him. A tremor shook her small frame. She turned her face away. Her legs jumped, bumping into his, bringing him closer to awareness. His brow furrowed. She twisted in his arms. The jagged movement jolted through him.
He flinched.
The dream fractured.
He woke in a rush, but stayed still, warrior senses seething as he absorbed his surroundings. Dry air. The hum of electricity inside walls. No threat detected. Without moving, he opened his eyes. A dark room greeted him. His night vision sparked. A wing chair came into focus, and two things registered at once. One, he lay in his bed, safe inside his room. And second—his dream girl was in his arms. Warm. Real. All woman. Surprise whipped through him. Forge tightened his embrace, surrounding her completely and . . . oh aye. Talk about perfect. Hope Cunningham, she of the gorgeous energy, here in his arms, her hair a glorious strawberry blond tangle around her head.
A startling turn of events. One that paralyzed him for a moment. Hope, in his bed. Him, wrapped around her. Holy shite. How had that happened? Last he remembered, she’d been telling him no—saying no . . . to everything.
Restless, she shifted in her sleep, legs and arms twitching.
Levering himself onto one elbow, he stared down at her. Recall tripped into motion—the nursery, his son, her exhaustion. Ah, aye. All right, then. He remembered now—how he’d carried her into his room, tucked her into bed, and lain down beside her. Satisfaction curled through him. His mouth curved. Beautiful. A lovely surprise so early in the day, except . . .
Forge blinked. Oh hell. She’d fed him. He’d taken from her.
The repercussions registered a second before the Meridian surged. The powerful cascade streamed through him. His heart kicked, reminding him where his hand rested. His fingers twitched around her breast. She arched into the pulse. The current intensified. Forge bowed his head as heated prickles slithered down his spine. He groaned and tried to stem the flow—he really did—but . . . oh Christ. Being fed by Hope shattered his resolve, setting him on fire for her. Now all he wanted was more. More of her energy. More of her nourishing heat. But mostly, more of her skin against his.
Urgency dug its claws in.
With a curse, he yanked his hand from beneath her shirt. His palm left her skin. His dragon half snarled at the loss, demanding he strip her bare. Stroke her some more. Taste her in far more intimate ways. His stomach dipped. Bad idea. Continuing to touch her would only make things worse, although . . . he drew a shaky breath . . . how much worse could it possibly get? The bond between them grew by the second, taking on a life of its own, forcing reality down his throat.
Jesus help him—energy-fuse.
He shook his head, denying the connection. It wasn’t happening. It simply couldn’t be, but even as he rejected the conclusion, the bond solidified. Rock solid. No way to avoid it. Not with his dragon half on board and . . . fuck. The territorial bastard inside him didn’t waste a second, unleashing a torrent of possessiveness, marking Hope as his own.
Wonder shuddered through him.
Forge raised his hand, brushing the hair away from Hope’s temple. She frowned. He changed tack, tracing the edge of her eyebrow with a fingertip. So warm. So soft. So crazy beautiful. His mate, the female meant for him, the one he’d longed for all his life. A powerful yearning welled inside him. Fear for her followed, dimming his pleasure.
Most males would have rejoiced. Done a happy dance. Wrapped her up and refused to let her go. Forge couldn’t bring himself to celebrate.
Dread gripped him instead.
What the hell was he going to do with her? He couldn’t keep her. Couldn’t mate her, never mind marry her in the way of his kind. Not while the Archguard hunted him. The instant it became known he’d taken a mate, the high council would put a price on her head. Send death squads to find her. Use Hope against him, hurt her in ways Forge refused to contemplate. He’d be forced to counter with a move that would ensure her safety—lock her down, curtail her freedom, infringe on her God-given right to choose in order to keep her safe. A catch-22, the worst of all possible outcomes. A damned-if-he-did, damned-if-he-didn’t kind of scenario.
He might not know Hope well yet, but he knew she wouldn’t react well to lockdown. Raised in the human world, she valued her freedom. As well she should, but it left him in an awful spot. The sum of which pointed to an indisputable fact: a female of his own would translate into a huge problem. One that would place them all—him, Hope, and his brothers-in-arms—in serious jeopardy.
Energy-fuse might be important, but his pack deserved better from him. He must remain steadfast. He needed to remain focused and on task. Protecting Bastian and his new brothers (along with his son) remained paramount. What he wanted didn’t matter. Which placed Hope off-limits. She wasn’t his, not to touch or taste or—
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled as an image of her wrapped around him took hold. He killed it quickly, leaving it dead inside his mind, like roadkill on a deserted highway. Scrubbing his hand over his face, Forge shook his head. “Keep it together, arsehole. Remember her purpose.”
Aye. Exactly. Her purpose. He must remember her role inside Black Diamond: to help him recover lost memories, not warm his bed.
Or steal his heart.
With a sigh, Forge glanced at the digital clock sitting on his nightstand: 3:39 p.m. Time to wake Hope and face the day. He needed time . . . and a shitload of distance. Enough to get his head screwed on straight. A solid plan. A foolproof way forward. A way to fight his escalating need to have her beneath him.
With a gentle hand, Forge palmed her shoulder.
Still fast asleep, she bared her teeth on a growl.
Sliding his hand to her elbow, he jostled her. “Hope?”
“No!” Balling her hands, Hope raised her fists.
Her vehement denial burst through the quiet. Forge sucked in a breath. What the hell? She looked ready to fight, already halfway into battle. Gaze on her face, he studied her expression, trying to figure out what to do. Yell at her? Shake her? Neither option appealed as he watched her. Muscles taut, body ready, she turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes moved behind her eyelids as though searching for a threat. Air rasped from between her parted lips. She twitched, twisting away from him. Energy-fuse flared. Her distress registered, streaming through the connection and . . .
Jesus.
She was panicked. Afraid. In full flight, fighting demons in her sleep.
Hoping to calm her, Forge murmured her name. With a quick shift, she lashed out. The white points of her knuckles came toward his head. He reared. Her fist swung wide. She launched the second. He dodged the punch, but missed the backlash. Her elbow slammed into his chest. He grunted. She snarled, the lethal sound full of intent as her guard came back up. Fingers shaped like claws, she struck out, aiming for his face.
He ducked.
She screamed, the battle cry raising the hairs on his nape.
“Hope!” His voice rang out. Her fist stalled mid-punch, halting an inch from his face. Chest heaving, she quivered, rustling the sheets, breaking his heart. “Good girl. There’s my lass. ’Tis all right, jalâyla. You’re all right.”
He murmured again and again, using his tone to good effect. He needed to open her mind and ease her fear. Without causing her more pain. God knew he hated being shaken from a bad dream. Somehow, being jarred awake made it worse. Instead of fading, the violent imagery stuck around, infecting his mind, infiltrating his body, making him tense for days on end. And shite, he didn’t want that for her. Waking Hope too fast might frighten her more. Coaxing her from the nightmare—banishing the imaginary monsters in her mind—seemed like a better option.
Fists raised and at the ready, Hope tilted her head, following his voice.
Focus riveted to her, he got ready to dodge and, raising his arm, closed his hand over her fist. Her knuckles pressed against his palm. She hissed. Shifting sideways on the mattress, he gave her more room and rolled her onto her back. “Wake up, luv. ’Tis naught but a dream, a bad dream.”
She flinched, jerking away from his hold.
He stilled. She settled. Waiting another heartbeat, he stroked her collarbone. His fingers turned north, skating over her throat. “Hope, it’s Forge. You’re safe. Open your—”
“Bastard!” Her head snapped to the side. “Get away!”
Arching in agony, she thrashed, kicking out with her legs. Her heel rammed into his thigh. Forge cursed as she pivoted on the sheets and . . . wham! Her knee slammed into his temple.
Ears ringing, he blocked another punch. “Good Christ.”
“Move it! Get out of there. Break for cover!” Spinning on the mattress, she surged onto her knees. Eyes shut tight, buried inside the dream, she lunged toward the end of the bed. “Oh God, where’s Conn? Droztan, where are you? I can’t feel him. I can’t—Droztan! Conn!”
Forge froze as she yelled names he hadn’t heard said aloud in fifty years. Surprise struck. His mind went blank. In the heat of battle, Hope slid across the mattress, shouting instructions to imaginary warriors. He opened his mouth, closed it again. What the hell was happening? How did she know his brothers’ names? What the . . . how the . . . Jesus fucking Christ. He couldn’t think. He stared at Hope instead, the shock so thick he couldn’t move. He watched her flail, yelling things he’d yelled, fighting a battle he’d fought, but couldn’t remember.
Oh nay. No, no . . . no. He recognized himself in the words she screamed. He’d shouted each one the night his brothers died. Goddamn energy-fuse. The bond worked in terrible ways. In sharing his energy with Hope, he’d started something he couldn’t stop. The Meridian had reacted without mercy, bonding her to him, sharing too much, too fast.
Proof rested in the nightmare.
“Oh, Hope,” he whispered, watching her struggle. He wanted to go to her, wrap her up tight, offer her comfort, but guilt held him in a death grip. She dreamed his dream, the one he suffered every time slumber dragged him under. “I’m so sorry, luv.”
On her knees, tangled up in the sheet, Hope whimpered. Arms hugging her chest, she favored her right wrist, listing to one side as though injured. “It hurts. Oh God, it hurts. My wing’s broken. I can’t fly. I can’t fly anymore.”
Tears burned the back of his throat.
“Help. I need help. Someone please help me.” Tears rolling down her cheeks, she fell backward, tumbling off the mattress.
As she hit the floor with a thud, shock released him. His muscles unlocked. Desperate to reach her, Forge lunged forward. “Hope!”
Reaching the edge, he catapulted over. Lying on her back on the braided rug, she cradled her arm to her chest. He landed on his knees beside her. The thump made her jump. Gasping, hurting, she cried out in her sleep. He called her name again. A furrow appeared between her brows. Almost awake, but not quite.
Shoving the sheet aside, he straddled her hips, leaned forward, and cupped her face. She shuddered beneath him. Thumbs brushing her cheekbones, he called on the bond he shared with her now. The Meridian rose. Energy sparked, arcing from him into her. His fingertips tingled as the stream gathered speed and . . . skin on skin. Both palms cradling her face. The rush of connection between them. Heaven. Hell. Shite, he didn’t know which place described it best, but as the electrostatic current grabbed hold, Forge couldn’t deny his satisfaction. He wanted to feed her—soothe her, protect her, be the male she counted on . . . for everything.
“He’s dead.” Her voice broke on a sob. “They’re all dead.”
“I know, jalâyla, I know. But it’s okay now,” he said, holding his own grief at bay to banish hers. Feeding her healing energy, he coaxed her out of slumber, asking her without words to trust him. She calmed under his influence, accepting his touch, making him feel like a male worthy of her. “Wake up now. Please open your eyes.”
The firmness of his voice roused her. Her eyelashes flickered, then rose. Green eyes swimming with tears met his. Her pain bled through, becoming his. His stomach clenched, but he took it all, funneling her anguish, carrying the burden, trying to wash away the hurt. Another sob escaped her. The ragged sound tightened his chest, making his heart ache.
“They’re everywhere,” she whispered. “Everywhere. I can’t get away. I can’t . . . please, help me.”
“I’m here—right here.” Holding her gaze, he drew gentle circles on her temples. “I’ve got you. Nothing bad is going tae happen. It wasn’t real. You were dreaming.”
Incomprehension fogged her gaze. “Dreaming?”
“Aye, lass. Just a dream.”
“It felt real—so real.” A tear spilled over her lashes. He watched it roll over her temple, calling himself every name he could think of for causing her distress—for forcing her to share his pain. His fault, from start to finish. He should have walked away. Left her untouched, asleep in the rocking chair. But oh no, not him. He’d been selfish, wanting her close. Now it was too late. He couldn’t retreat. Couldn’t change it. He was stuck. Mired neck-deep as his dragon half insisted Hope belonged to him. With him, always. “It hurt. They hurt me.”
“Aye, I know, but it’s over now,” he murmured, closing his eyes, shutting out the sight of her beneath him. She looked amazing there, just right and . . . God, he was a bastard. And in big trouble. Screwed by a good plan gone wrong. All he’d wanted was a few weeks with her—some intense bed play, loads of mutual pleasure, to hear her scream his name as he made her come. Opening his eyes, he recaptured her gaze. “You’re safe.”
She drew a shaky breath. “Safe.”
“Aye—safe,” he said, emphasizing the word, reassuring her. Pressing his cheek to hers, he caged her in his arms, surrounding her with his strength. “I will never allow anything bad tae happen tae you, lass. I will protect you at all costs.”
Fresh tears flooded her eyes and fell. “Thank you, but—”
“No buts, lass.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need tae understand. ’Tis a fact now, plain and simple.”
Plain and simple.
Forge stifled a snort. Someone needed to yell “bullshite.” Nothing could be further from the truth. The situation was as complicated as hell. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret Hope’s presence inside his home, or his heated response to her. A screwed-up reaction? Absolutely, but energy-fuse didn’t lie and couldn’t be ignored. Stronger males than him had tried and failed. So . . . no help for it. He might know walking away was the right thing to do, but the bond he now shared with Hope told a different story. The Goddess of All Things didn’t indulge in flights of fancy. She wove an intricate plan, knitting multiple threads in a vast universe, encouraging the greater good. Somehow, for some reason, she’d chosen him, gifting him with a female so stunning, so precious, his dragon half refused to turn away. No matter the danger, or cost to his pride.
Which left him with little choice.
He wanted Hope. The goddess believed he should have her, so forget about walking away. He’d take what she offered. Stake his claim. Make Hope his. Pray to God he didn’t hurt her and it all worked out in the end.
Arm throbbing in agony, Hope hovered on the edge of panic. Any moment now, she’d plunge back in—freak out, scream some more, and run. Only one thing stopped her flight back into terror—Forge. He held her steady, hands cupping her face, nose an inch from hers, eyes the color of amethysts grounding her as seconds ticked into minutes.
It felt like hours instead. As though time had stopped, suspending her in hell.
A shudder raked her, making her teeth rattle.
She couldn’t shake the chaos. Could still smell the scorched scales and burning flesh. Could still hear the shrieking battle cries. Still felt pain across her rib cage with every breath she took.
Horrifying images bombarded her. Like a well-shot horror movie, gory pictures winged across her mind. Death. Destruction. Blood. Oh God. Fresh tears welled. There had been so much blood. Hers. Forge’s. Hope didn’t know anymore. She couldn’t keep anything straight. The screenshots kept merging, preventing her from splitting the experience into two distinct halves. She couldn’t separate herself from the whole. Or tell where she ended and the dragon began.
Hope squeezed her eyes shut.
More tears fell.
“Eyes on me, Hope,” Forge murmured, tone firm, yet somehow gentle. The combination cut through her fear, cleaning the suffocating stench of sulfur away. “Look at me.”
She obeyed and met his gaze.
“There’s my lass. Stay right here with me, okay?”
“Okay.” Excellent plan. Particularly since he was right. She was safe here . . . with him. How she knew that, Hope couldn’t say. Nothing proved the assertion. Empirical evidence had yet to surface, and still, she understood it was true. Forge equaled safety, at least for her. “Forge?”
“Aye?”
“I don’t like this,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“I know, jalâyla,” he said, anchoring her in reality, interrupting the pain. “Take a deep breath for me.”
For him. His request thumped on her mental door. Hope swallowed past the lump in her throat and . . . okay. Good enough. Despite the lockdown and her inability to move, she could do that, try to obey, do as he asked and—
He encouraged her with a murmur.
Her chest expanded. Air filled her lungs so fast the infusion of oxygen made her lightheaded for a moment.
“Good lass. Now—another.”
She took a second breath.
With a hum of approval, Forge continued talking to her, praising her efforts, wiping her tears away, the sound of his voice becoming a lifeline in the quiet. Another breath. More life-sustaining oxygen. Her mind sparked, pushing panic aside. Flat on her back on the floor, blinking into the gloom, Hope forced her eyes to adjust in the dark. The surroundings bled through the edge of awareness.
Faint light.
The rise of shadowy bedposts.
Forge straddling her hips, crouched above her and—
An odd shimmer sparked in his eyes. The glow expanded, cascading like twin waterfalls through his irises. Hope frowned. Strange. Extraordinary. All kinds of beautiful, but . . .
She raised her hand. One hand gripping his wrist, she set the other against his face, touching the corner of his eye with her fingertip. “You’re glowing.”
“Trick of the light.”
“I don’t think so.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “You think I’d lie tae you?”
“In a heartbeat,” she said, voice soft, but full of conviction. “Especially if you thought you could get away with it.”
He huffed. “You’ve had a shock, lass. You’re imagining things.”
Possible. Her mind, after all, remained mired in the dream. She shivered. “It was awful. I’ve never had a dream like that before.”
“I know. I’ll make sure it doesnae happen again.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
Trust him. Hope frowned. Was she really ready to do that? All right, so she already felt safe with him, but trust? Such a big word. A huge leap as well, one that required both faith and courage in equal measure. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Bullshite. Of course you can. Who’s the therapist here anyway?”
Amusement trickled through her. She snorted. “I study psychology. Never said I was any good at it.”
He laughed.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, enchanting her, disarming her. As though the slight release of tension signaled her surrender, Forge pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose and leaned back, giving her more space. He didn’t leave her, though, or shift position.
He played instead, one hand stroking her hair as he lifted the other from her cheek. His fingertips caressed her jaw before slipping beneath her head. He cupped her nape, his grip firm enough to hold her attention. Heat poured from his palm. A strange buzz erupted between her temples. Prickles raced along her scalp, then turned tail to ghost down her spine. Chasing the odd vibration, Hope turned into his touch.
“That’s it, jalâyla,” he murmured. “Feel the flow, take all you want.”
Peace washed in like the evening tide. Rush and retreat. Roll in, pick up the slime coating her insides, push back out again. With each pass, the current intensified, taking out mental trash, rinsing her clean, shaking the nightmare’s grip. Her heartbeat slowed. Fear uncurled its claws, losing the power to hurt her.
“Feels so good.” Hope sighed. “Like a hot spring.”
“You want me tae run you a bath?”
“No. Just keep talking.”
His eyebrow hitched. “About what?”
No clue. Didn’t matter. Let him figure it out.
Hope didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted her brain to switch off, to float in the sea of feel-good while Forge held her. She drew in a shaky breath. God, he was something. Gentle. Comforting. So warm his body heat tunneled into her muscles, invaded her bones, sending prickles of relief through her. The mesmerizing wash eased her tension. Her mind blurred. She blinked, a slow up and down as coherence fled, becoming a distant memory and . . . huh. Wasn’t that odd? The question shimmered on the periphery of her mind.
She tried to nod in agreement.
Her body refused to cooperate, closing her eyes, making her go boneless beneath Forge. So relaxed. Not a care in the world. She was past fuzzy-headed, as though she’d been downing tequila shots for hours. Which was—Hope smiled—pretty darn nice. Slaphappy drunk. Sloshed. Hammered. Blitzed . . . whatever. Label the condition and get her another glass full of awesome. The buzz was bliss filled. Fantastic and fun. Pure perfection.
Someone should really figure out a way to bottle it.
Wanting more, she sank into the stream, immersing herself in the current.
“Lass?”
“Such a great accent,” she said, her voice slurring as relaxation dragged her deeper. “I love the way you sound.”
He paused mid-caress. A heartbeat passed before he stroked her again, fingers moving over her in light passes. “Anything in particular you want tae talk about?”
The amusement in his voice registered.
Hope meant to answer. She really did, but well . . . crap. She didn’t know how to react—be annoyed he laughed at her or grateful he kept touching her. A total toss-up. A real quandary. One that might, on some level, involve her pride. Hope pursed her lips. She should probably do something about that, but honestly—what did it matter? The slow glide of his hands soothed her. And every word he spoke, the timbre of his baritone, set her adrift, widening the distance between her and the dream.
“Hope?”
Her eyes drifted open. “Hmm?”
His lips twitched. “I’m still waiting for a topic.”
Confusion broke into her bubble. “A topic?”
“Aye. If you want me tae talk, I need a topic.”
“Oh well . . . anything. I could listen to you for hours.” Releasing her grip on his wrist, she lifted her hand. So heavy. Her arm weighed a ton, as though cement had replaced the marrow in her bones. After what seemed like forever, her fingers touched down, grazing over day-old whiskers before reaching Forge’s mouth. She traced his bottom lip. “Totally kissable. Bet you taste good.”
Surprise lit in his eyes. He drew a quick breath.
Tilting her head, she considered his need for a topic. An idea flashed through her mind, lighting her up like a lightbulb. Oh yeah. She smiled. Awesome. Best plan ever. “Read to me. You got any books in here?”
Expression serious, he shook his head. “Architectural Digest. A tome on fine whiskeys.”
“Ugh,” she said, disappointed. She’d been hoping for something more interesting, like say, The Bourne Identity. “You like whiskey?”
“Love it. I’m building a cellar for my collection in the underground lair.”
“Can I see it?”
“Aye, if you like.”
“In the meantime, we still need a book.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “I have something else in mind.”
“Something I’ll like better?”
“Absolutely.”
Oh wonderful. Excellent, in fact. “What?”
“This.”
Cupping her chin, Forge dipped his head and invaded her mouth. Shock held her still. She sucked in a breath. His tongue slid over her teeth, flicked at hers, urging a response and . . . holy Mary, mother of God. She’d been wrong. So completely wrong. He tasted better than good. He was delicious, pure delight buried inside an impossibly gorgeous man. One who felt far too right.
The thought sent alarm bells clanging inside her head.
She should stop him. Right now. This instant. Before she went too far, allowed too much, and couldn’t pull back. And yet, she didn’t turn away. She welcomed him instead, opening wider, kissing him back, letting her hands roam and her libido out to play.
He groaned her name.
She whispered back, caressing his shoulders, burying her hands in his hair, asking for more. For everything, all he wanted to give her.
Bad plan. Big, big trouble.
Making love with Forge was a terrible idea. The worst, a fifteen on a scale of one to ten.
Hope knew it. Deep down where propriety lived, all the reasons to say no bubbled to the surface. A long list—practically endless—one she should heed, but . . . nope. Not today. She didn’t want to listen. She wanted to wallow instead—burrow in, accept the pleasure, and make a home in his arms. She longed for him. His acceptance of her need. Hot, hard, unapologetic lust. Desire at its most ferocious. And as Forge offered it to her, she surrendered, giving him everything he asked, addicted to the rush in her veins—the unshakable sense of connection—as he settled heavy against her.
His weight pressed her into the rug.
Hooking her knee over his hip, Hope hung on hard, allowing him to settle between her thighs, scraping her nails over his scalp, egging him on without words. Forge deepened the kiss. She moaned in delight. More, she needed more—harder, faster . . . naked. Yes, please, naked. It couldn’t happen fast enough. She needed to be skin-to-skin with him—to touch and taste, to serve herself up for his pleasure and reap her own in return. It had been so long, too long, since she’d given herself to a man. Since she’d wanted so much and been held so well, so . . .
Forget about right. Here, right now, was all about wrong.
Forge desired her. She craved him. So yeah. She would take what she wanted. All the reasons it was a bad idea would have to wait. She was jumping in feetfirst. To hell with the consequences.