Page 29 of Preacher

His chuckle was not endearing. “I’ll be damn. You’re right.”

Why did it sound like there was a “but” coming? I knew I was right, but his self-satisfied smile made me hesitate. Tying off the stitch, I cut it then snatched my phone. “See, it says it right here.”

“It’s October.” Preacher leaned back on his elbows, his legs tightening around mine, smiling up at me like the Cheshire cat.

“Your point?” Damn. Why did Preacher have to look so drool-worthy laid back like that, eyes smoldering like he wanted to gobble me whole?

“My point, darling, is that Hell, Norway, freezes over between December and March.” His gaze raked over me, thighs tugging me closer. “I guess that means you have to whimper.”

I was, but not for the reason Preacher thought. Those damn lips taunted me, making me lick my own.

He reached his hand out. “Go ahead.”

“What?” My damn brain had exited the conversation the moment Preacher had leaned back and made himself look edible.

“Kiss me.” He leaned up, pressed his hands back behind my thighs.

Every rational thought fled as I stared down at him, medical supplies forgotten on the nightstand.

“Bold of you to assume I want to kiss you,” I managed, even as heat pooled in my stomach.

Amber eyes gleamed with amusement. “Liar.”

Before I could argue, his grip tightened and he tugged. My knees hit the mattress on either side of his hips, hands bracing against his shoulders to keep from falling completely. The stitches pulled slightly under my palm, reminding me why we were here in the first place.

“Your shoulder—”

“Will heal.” His hands slid up to my waist, thumbs finding the strip of skin where my shirt had ridden up. “Stop overthinking.”

Easy for him to say. My brain was a storm, trying to process wolves snarling, gunshot echoes, the heat of Preacher Deluca beneath me, and the way his gaze locked onto me like I was the only thing that mattered.

I leaned down, slow, watching his pupils swallow the amber of his irises. His grip tightened, but he didn’t rush me. My hands shook as I cupped his face, the coarse hair of his beard rough against my palms.

“Still scared?” His voice was rough, barely a whisper.

“Terrified.” Not of him. Of the way my pulse raced, of how much I wanted this, of what it would change. “But not enough to stop.”

Our mouths crashed together, no hesitation this time. His lips were hot, tasting of smoke and whiskey and something darker, something that made my stomach clench. A whimper clawed its way out of me.

His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back as his tongue pushed past my lips, demanding. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, sharp enough to make me gasp.

That sound set him off. In one motion, he sat up, pulling me flush against him, his mouth slanting over mine with a hunger that left no room for doubt.

My fingers dug into his hair, nails scraping his scalp as his teeth dragged along my jaw. “Fuck,” I gasped.

“Been wanting to do this since you glared at me from the concrete,” he growled against my throat, his lips finding the spot where my pulse raced.

“That’s…ah…that’s concerning.” My hips rolled forward, grinding against him, and we both groaned.

His hands slipped under my shirt, calloused palms skimming up my spine. “Take it off.”

I sat up just enough to tear my shirt over my head, baring everything—the sharp angles of my ribs, the bruises blooming on my arm.

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.

His mouth found my collarbone, teeth grazing the ridge, making me hiss as he worked lower, his beard scraping raw against my skin. When his tongue flicked over my nipple, I arched into it, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He chuckled darkly, teeth closing around the sensitive peak just enough to make me gasp.

“Preacher,” I choked out as he sucked hard. My cock throbbed, leaking through my jeans.