Archer's Voice(66)
We sat in silence for a little bit, sipping the wine and just watching the fire blaze and jump. I felt happy and content, the wine moving through my blood. I leaned my head on the back of the wooden chair and looked over at his handsome profile, all alight in the glow of the fire. For a second he looked like a God, maybe of the Sun, all golden and beautiful, his own magnificence outdoing that of the dancing flames. I laughed slightly to myself–feeling drunk from half a glass of Merlot. Drunk on him, on this night, on fate, on bravery, on life. I stood up, the blanket on my lap falling to the chair, and I sat my wine down on the sand. I walked to him and sat on his lap and when he smiled, I took his face in my hands and simply gazed at him for a second before I brought my lips down on his, tasting red wine and Archer, a delicious ambrosia that made me moan and tilt my head so that he would take over the kiss and give me more of himself. He did, leaning into me and teasing my tongue with his as I adjusted myself on his lap and sighed into his mouth. He responded to my sigh, his tongue plunging slowly into my mouth, mimicking the sex act, and making my core pulse to life, almost instantly slick and wet, ready for him to fill me and satiate the deep need that was making me ache and squirm on his lap.
He smiled against my mouth–he knew exactly what he did to me and he liked it. It was so easy to get lost in him now, the way he paid attention, the way he looked at me as if he adored me, the way his intense sexiness was all natural and unabashed–he barely knew it existed. But he was learning, and in a way I felt the loss of the unsure man who looked to me to show him how to pleasure me, to tell him I wanted him at all. But the other part of me gloried in his newfound confidence, in the way he took charge of my body and made me weak with desire.
After a few minutes, I leaned back, both of us breathing harshly, catching our breath. I kissed him lightly one more time on his mouth. "You get me worked up too quickly," I said.
His hands came up. Is that a bad thing? he asked. He eyed me–it was an actual question, not rhetorical.
I ran my thumb over his bottom lip. "No," I whispered, shaking my head.
I caught sight of his scar in the dancing flames, the raised skin red in the firelight, the shiny skin golden, stretched. I leaned in and kissed it and he shuddered slightly, going still. I ran my tongue over it, feeling his body tense even more.
I whispered against his throat, "You're beautiful everywhere, Archer."
He let out a breath and leaned his head back very, very slightly, giving me more access, baring his scar to me, a beautiful act of trust.
"Tell me what happened," I whispered, rubbing my lips up and down the puckered skin, drawing in his scent. "Tell me all of it. I want to know you," I said, leaning back and looking up at him.
His expression was a mixture of tense and thoughtful as he looked down into my face. He let out a breath and brought his hands up. I felt… almost normal today. At the diner. He paused. I don't want to remember how I'm broken tonight, Bree. Please. I just want to hold you out here, and then I want to take you inside and make love to you. I know it's hard to understand, but please. Let me just enjoy you for now.
I studied him. I did understand. I had been there. I had tried so hard to get back to a place of normalcy after my dad died. I had tried so hard to stop missing exits on the highway that I'd taken a thousand times, tried so hard to stop zoning out at the grocery store, standing in front of the oranges, just staring into space, tried hard to feel something–anything that wasn't pure pain. And no matter who had asked me, no matter how much they'd loved me, I couldn't have talked about it until I was one hundred percent ready. Archer had lived with his own pain for a long, long time, and asking him to re-visit it on my time schedule would never be fair. I would wait. I would wait as long as he needed me to.
I smiled at him, smoothed his hair back from his forehead and kissed him gently again. When I leaned back, I said, "Remember how you told me that I did fight the night my dad was killed and I was attacked?"
He nodded, his eyes dark orbs in the dim light just beyond the reach of the firelight.
"Well so did you," I said quietly. "I don't know what happened, Archer, and I hope someday you'll tell me. But what I do know is that what this scar tells me is that you fought to live too," I ran my fingertip lightly up the ruined skin of his throat and felt him swallow thickly, "my wounded healer, my beautiful Archer."
His eyes glittered at me and after a few silent beats, he picked me up and placed me down for a few seconds as he dumped some sand on the fire. Then he picked me up again as I laughed and clung to him, and he carried me up the hill to his house and his bed.
CHAPTER 23
Bree
The next day I left Archer tangled in the sheets of his bed. A blanket barely covered the muscular globes of his ass and his arms were wrapped around the pillow under his head so that his beautiful back, all hard planes and ridges, was fully on display. I briefly considered waking him up to enjoy all those planes and ridges again, but I knew that Phoebe probably needed to do her business and I had sadly neglected my cottage and my life–it was a mess and I didn't have any clean underwear left. So I tore myself away to do some necessary chores, leaving a small, light kiss on Archer's shoulder. He was tired–he had exerted a whole lot of energy the night before. I squeezed my thighs together at the memory and forced my feet to move me out of the small bedroom.