He licked his lips, and a flash of uncertainty narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you wanted to fight.”
I strolled up to him and paused. Out of arm’s reach-I’m not dumb. “I thought you were asking me how I wanted this to end.”
Zay studied me, his brown eyes just brown, no hint of the gold that using magic always sparked there. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been using magic for the past couple months. Ever since my test to see whether I could become a part of the Authority, and the craziness with the gate between life and death opening right in the middle of the test room, things had been quiet.
And I mean quiet. I’d Hounded only a couple magical crimes for Detective Paul Stotts. My dead father, who had taken up residence in my head, seemed to be so distant, he mostly appeared in my dreams. And my training-both physical and magical-with members of the Authority had been exhausting, but a long way from life threatening.
Things were actually pretty good. I liked that. Liked not having to worry whether I’d survive the day. And it wasn’t just my life that was better for the downtime. Over the past several weeks I’d watched Zayvion change from a somber, tightly controlled, dutiful man, to someone a little surprised he was enjoying life.
Time off from his duties with the Authority looked good on him. Sexy.
“I wasn’t talking about ending this,” he said, and it took me a minute to remember what we were talking about. Oh yeah, the fight. “But we can call it a day. Since you’re surrendering and admitting you lost. Again.”
As if I’d give up that easily. I glared at him.
Light poured in through the windows, casting warm coffee-colored shadows beneath his high cheekbones and jaw. His hair was always short, but he’d recently buzzed his dark curls, which somehow only enhanced his beautiful eyes and strong, wide nose. The look of worry that I only occasionally glimpsed through his Zen mask had been absent for weeks. He smiled more. Laughed more.
And it made me realize how hard I’d fallen for him. I didn’t want what we’d had for the past few weeks to change or disappear. But I’d lost too many people in my life, and too many memories along the way, for me to think things would always be this easy between us. The idea of losing him made it hard to breathe.
I tried to push that fear away, but it clung like a bad dream.
“Allie?” Zay was no longer smiling. “Are you hurt? Your shoulder?” He came closer and put his wide, warm palm on my shoulder.
That touch gave me the faintest hint at what he was feeling: concern that he’d torn my arm out on that last flip, which, yes, he could have, but no-I wasn’t that fragile.
And that reminded me of what this little get-together was all about. Fighting. Training. Becoming strong enough to hold my own against anyone. Even the legendary Zayvion Jones.
I knew I shouldn’t do it. But hey, a girl has to take what opportunities present themselves, right? I had my game plan.
I stepped into him and turned my hip, sweeping his foot out from under him. He went down, rolled, but I was there, got in close, getting his arm back, my arm through it, and the other over his throat.
“Give,” I said. We were in close contact, but I was too busy staying on the winning side of the tussle to have brain cells left to concentrate on what he might be thinking.
“No,” he grunted.
Even though I am a tall woman, Zay still had me on sheer muscle. He flexed and managed to break my hold, twisting over and onto his back, his legs scissoring to catch mine.
No way I’d let him do that.
I followed him, using his momentum to roll over him and then behind. I huffed out air, got to my knees, and tried to keep his arm pinned.
He shifted, rolled. I ended up kneeling with him beneath me. Boo-ya! I was on top.
I had one knee planted beside him and the other foot braced on the opposite side. Forget about his arm-I wrapped my hands around his throat, knuckles at his windpipe.
He pressed his palms flat against my hip bones and tilted his hands inward so his fingers stroked upward beneath my T-shirt. I glared at him as the heels of his hands slid over the bullet scar on my left side and the smooth skin on my right. Then up and up. His thumbs tracked slower than his fingers over my stomach, pausing to dip and press at my navel. Then he fanned his hands outward, upward, and rested them beneath the curve of my breasts, supporting the weight there.
I raised an eyebrow. “You do notice I’m choking you?” I squeezed a little harder in case he thought I was kidding around.
He grunted.
I most certainly was not kidding around.
He shifted his grip. Tried to pull me down and rolled one hip to throw me. No chance. I braced my heel to stay out of the roll and pressed harder.
“Mercy,” he whispered.
I relaxed my grip. “Say I win.”
“I win,” he managed.
I retucked my thumbs against his windpipe. “What? You win? Is that what you said? I must not have heard you correctly.”
“Draw,” he whispered.
“Oh, sweet hells, Jones. You have got to be the most stubborn man I know. You lost.”
“I agree,” he said.
Huh. I hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. I pulled my hands away, rested them against his chest.
“I am the most stubborn man you know.” He rubbed at his throat with one hand. Grinned at me.
I smacked his other arm. “My honor’s at stake here. You lost. I won. If you can’t admit that, I’m not sure our relationship will survive.”
He snorted, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me fully on top of him. His fist, in the valley between my breasts, was a hard pressure between us.
“Nothing’s going to get in the way of our relationship.” His gaze searched my own, and the slightest fleck of gold sparked there. “So long as we want this, nothing can stand in our way.”
Damn. Could the man get any more romantic?
I tipped my head down and caught his lips with my own, soft, thick, hungry. He instantly responded, then licked gently at my mouth until I opened for him. He tasted of deep, warm mint, and his pine scent, peppered by sweat, carried the memory of the countless times we had touched, loved.
I explored the textures of his lips, his mouth, savoring him slowly, and he did the same, his tongue stroking a delicious heat through my body. I moaned softly and gave in to the liquid fire burning through me.
I wanted him. And it was very clear he wanted me.
He flattened his fist and released my shirt, then wrapped his arm around me, holding me tightly, as if he were afraid I might disappear.
A little too tightly. Claustrophobia tickled the back of my throat. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
I exhaled and pushed back enough that he knew to loosen his grip. I lifted my shoulders and chest and took a deep breath. There was plenty of room here, plenty of room for us to be this close.
He drew his arms off from around me, his hands at my ribs instead, helping me stay half raised above him. My right hand on the floor next to him did the rest to support my weight.
With his free hand, he tucked my hair behind my ear, a gesture that was becoming habitual and endearing.
“Okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. Just that much space, that one deep breath, cleared my head and pushed the claustrophobia away.
I wove my fingers between the thickness of his and pulled his hand out to the side. I eased back down on him and caught his other hand, and drew it outward too, so that we lay body against body, spread wide upon the floor. My breasts, stomach, hips, thighs, melted into the length and hardness of him beneath me. I wanted more of him. All of him. I kissed the side of his neck, bit gently. His hands clenched, and his body responded to my unspoken invitation.