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Hallie
I wasn’t done with the kissing by any means, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the pictures or his life in Ivy Springs. I took the corkboard off his desk and climbed into his lap.
“Who are they?” I pointed to a group picture. “Them first.”
“Kaleb and Lily,” Dune said. “She can find things; he can read emotional time lines.”
“That’s a lot of sexy in one couple.” Kaleb stood behind Lily, with his arms around her waist.
Dune laughed. “You got that right.”
My jealousy tweaked a little. “And these two?”
“Emerson and Michael. Travelers. They set off electrical equipment when they touch.”
“So do Amelia and Zooey. Imagine how their mom felt when they were in her womb.”
I refocused on the photo. Tall, dark, and handsome held hands with short, blond, and cute, and they both looked fierce, like anyone who tried to come between them would get taken out.
“And you never had anyone?”
“I hadn’t met you yet.”
I turned around to face him. “Why are you giving me puppy eyes?”
“I thought you were going to kiss me.”
“Oh, keep looking at me like that and I can do better than kiss you.” I put the corkboard down and slid my hands inside the short sleeves of his shirt and up, just to touch skin I hadn’t before. I stopped when I saw the tattoo that completely covered his right shoulder. I pulled up the fabric and stared at the intricate lines.
“A tattoo?” The sexy surprises never stopped with this one. I wondered if there were more and made the resolution to go exploring.
“It’s Samoan. Descendants of chiefs usually get the traditional pe’a.”
“What’s a pe’a?”
“The pe’a goes from the waist to the knees. Everywhere between the waist and the knees.”
I blinked. “Do you …?”
“I opted out.” He grinned. “It takes ten days. If an intended chief received it and didn’t cry from the pain or die from infection, he was fit to rule.”
“That’s … terrifying.”
“I’ll never be a chief, so the shoulder was the better option.” He looked down at it. “It stands for a lot of things. All of them important enough for me to carry around for life.”
I pushed him down on the bed. “Who are you and where did you come from and how did I get lucky enough to be here with you now?”
His answer was his fingertips on my face, my neck, the small of my back. So gentle, so careful. He found sensitive spots, teased me with his touch, and then brought every ounce of focus back to our joined mouths.
When my explorations got a little adventurous, he rolled me over, took my wrists in his hands, and put them over my head. Then he adjusted our bodies so nothing but our lips were touching.
“Dune.” I pressed toward him, yearning for more. I’d have begged for him in the middle of the Saint Louis Cathedral during Easter mass.
“You sound winded.”
“You’re withholding.”
“I’m delaying gratification.” He lowered his body half an inch.
