He traced his own fingertips down the side of her face, and his expression took on a whole new light she’d never seen before. Her fingers paused as she got caught up in looking back.

“What?” she finally said, the word barely more than a whisper.

“My ridiculous good luck is holding,” he said, caressing her bottom lip with one fingertip, then replacing it with his own lips. Only this time the kiss was slower, softer, deeper. Almost…reverent. He took his time, claiming her in a way…well, that felt like it was all about being claimed.

“Brett,” she said as his lips left hers, slowly, so they continued to touch, even as their breaths comingled.

“I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet,” he said, sounding almost a little stunned. Then he took her mouth again, only this time there was heat, and passion, and absolute intent.

And if she’d felt soulfully claimed a moment ago…she was feeling absolutely primally claimed now. She didn’t know what it meant, or what he was thinking. Did he mean the great sex? It was pretty damn incredible. Or was there some deeper meaning. It felt a lot…deeper.

But that was as analytical as her poor, hormone-besieged brain could be. The rest of her was far too intent on doing some claiming of its own to be worrying about things like motivation and meaning.

The only thing she was motivated to do in that moment was to get them both out of their clothes and get him as deep inside of her as possible. He was like some kind of narcotic. Every time she got a little, she wanted more. And it took more to get her that fix she needed, craved. He was insatiable with her, which was heady, heady stuff…and she was equally voracious in return.

Clothes were peeled off, pillows shoved aside as he pushed her farther across the bed and moved between her legs. There was no talking, no laughter. This was hot, hard, so fierce she thought she might pass out from the intensity of it. And then he was burying himself hard inside of her and her guttural growl of satisfaction vibrated against the slick skin on the side of his neck, where she was nibbling, biting, licking.

He pinned her hands down beside her head and moved faster. She dug the heels of her feet into the backs of his thighs, urging him on, rising to meet him, reveling in the hoarse groans coming from somewhere deep inside his chest, matching him grunt for grunt with her own half wild growls.

Their bodies pistoned, her hips thrusting up, his pinning her back down, until the sweat and internal combustion made their bodies so slick it was hard for her to keep any grip on him at all. He solved that by gripping her thighs and pushing her up the bed.

“Hold on,” he commanded, jerking his chin at her hands, now clutching at the sheets beside her head.

She reached blindly up until she found the headboard and grabbed on to the heavy rolled edge now above her head.

He held on to her thighs and lifted her higher, farther onto him, as he continued to take her. And she continued to take him in.

They were both half grunting, half shouting, as she felt him gather inside her, building…which took her screaming right over the edge. He was swearing, loud and long, as he climaxed right as the shock waves were still spasmodically jerking her body beneath his.

The force of it was so strong, so intense, they continued pumping even as they both shook with exhaustion, until finally he braced his weight over her on his elbows, sweat dripping from his brow onto the base of her throat, as he slid from her, emitting another deep groan of satisfaction as he did, making her quiver involuntarily…then sliding down her body so he could press a reverent kiss directly over her heart.

She managed to pry her grip from the headboard and buried her fingers into his thick hair as he sprawled across the bed, his cheek pressed against her stomach, one arm splayed across her hips. He slid his free hand up to cup the side of her face, cradling her in his wide palm, as he stroked along her cheekbone with his thumb.

She had never been so utterly and completely spent in her life. There was no actual thought, and a complete inability to form words. So she just laid there, sated in a way that went so far past the physical, she was grateful that her brain was too saturated to figure out the true deeper meaning of it all.

So she simply enjoyed the weight of him, half draped across her body, feeling his heartbeat against her thigh as her own finally began to slow to some semblance of a normal pulse pattern. As she toyed with his hair, he continued to softly stroke the side of her face. She felt incredibly well loved…and, again, it reached past the physical. She closed her eyes and floated, purposely letting go of all thought.

Because if she’d dwelled, for even a second longer, on how well loved she felt in that moment, on the richness and depth of emotion that he brought to her heart and soul, in a way she’d never even knew existed, much less ever experienced, then that burning sensation would build and well up behind her eyes again, and that deep, unending ache would bloom inside her heart. And it was too fine a moment to spoil with even a tinge of pain or sadness.

Because Kirby was one lucky son of a bitch, too. And, for right that moment, that was damn well going to be enough.

But, like all moments, fine or otherwise, this one had to come to an end. She felt Brett sigh even as she heard the sound of it, and his touch paused along the edge of her cheekbone.

“Kirby,” he said, and the sound of her name, said in a voice so raw and raspy from the force of his lovemaking mere moments ago, threatened to bring those tears on anyway. Only now she couldn’t tell if they’d be of joy, or anguish…or some pathetic mix of both. She just knew she’d give a lot to hear him say her name, just like that, again. And again.

“I-” She broke off, finding her voice raw, but her throat even tighter against those unshed tears. God, he was going to think her a basket case, unable to keep her act together whenever they had sex in a damn bed. She eased out from under him, knowing she was running away, but feeling retreat was, in this case, the better part of valor. Or at the very least, in retaining her some shred of her dignity. “I need to…” She didn’t finish, but hoped he’d fill in the blank as she slipped from the bed and ducked into the adjoining bathroom.

She clicked the door shut softly behind her, praying he was spent enough that his awesome powers of perception didn’t see past her surface excuse and cause him to follow her.

She went straight to the pedestal sink and ran cool water, sliding her hands under the steady stream and splashing the water lightly onto her face, then doing it again, hoping to quell the threat. When she finally felt like she was getting some semblance of a grip, she slowly lifted her face to the mirror. Her eyes were clear, not even a hint of pink. Good, she thought, and turned off the water as she grabbed a fluffy washcloth to pat her stubble-abraded cheeks dry.

Now, she thought as she straightened, if I could only cool off my heart with a good cold splash.

She took a steadying breath and turned away from the mirror, leaning back against the sink as she drew another breath, then another. She’d go back in there, crawl back into bed with a smile on her face, say something light, something funny, make him smile…and shift the tone back to one of teasing and playful banter. And away from…whatever the hell had just happened between them. Which was anything but light or playful.

She wondered what he was thinking out there. What had he been feeling while he was taking her like that? What had it meant?

She ducked her chin as a small, wry smile twisted her lips. He was probably just horny after not getting any regular time together with her, and right this very second, he was out there sound asleep with a stupid grin on his impossibly handsome face. And here she was thinking silly, pathetic romance and roses thoughts.