onyx. A deep frown knitted her brows, and she touched a finger to the cleft of his chin. “I don't know how long it takes the symptoms of a concussion to show.”
“I don't have a concussion.” He tucked a silken lock behind her ear. “I figure we have at least twenty-four hours before civilization intrudes. You've had the paratrooper in a pear tree, and I'm pretty sure there're no turtledoves in Alaska. So instead, we'll decorate the tree, and I'll carve you a couple birds to hang on it. Hence, the popcorn.”
Her nipples scraped his chest, but his carnal cravings had subsided, replaced by a tenderness that cascaded to a burning sweetness as her every thought flickered over her face.
“What? Why're you frowning?”
A tear formed, hung for a minute, then surfed the ridge of her cheekbone; she sniffed.
“No tears, please, Destiny.” He hugged her, smoothing a palm up and down her spine and leaned his forehead against hers. “What's wrong now?”
“I must be dreaming, because you're way too good to be real.” Twin trails of dampness smeared both cheeks. She snuffled and swiped at the moisture. “I never cry. And I'm not sentimental. And I don't believe in happy ever after.”
“That mean you don't want the tree?” Some shithead had shattered her little-girl innocence into fine shards. Linc made a mental note to have his buddy, Lucifer, do a complete background check on her. He captured her gaze by tipping her chin. “Destiny, do you want the tree or not? This is your call.”
She snagged her lower lip with two teeth, splayed both hands on his pecs, and studied his stubble for long seconds. “I'll fix you breakfast and find the popcorn.”
Linc forced himself to retreat, even though he wanted to preen and crow at the small victory.
“Deal.” He dropped a kiss on her nose, let his arms swing to his sides, and then scoured the cabin for her T-shirt.
He'd won this skirmish. One small step toward trust.
Spying the white cotton near the fridge, Linc took a long step, bent, and scrunched the material with one hand.
“Thank you.” She'd followed him and stood mere inches to the left of the fabric sprouting from his clasped fingers.
He glanced at her outstretched hand, brought the T-shirt to his nose, and inhaled. “Smells of you, all lavender and spice. Lift your arms, Baby Doll.”
“Do you call all the women you sleep with baby doll?” She cut him a furious scowl and thrust out her jaw.
Destiny had the equivalent of buyer's remorse, Linc deduced, having seen the same response from every one of his sisters during that first phase of a romance, both wanting to trust and terrified of doing so.
“The first time I set eyes on you, I thought I'd entered the Christian parallel to a Muslim's fatwa reward—you know, the seventy virgins in paradise. I figured I'd ascended to heaven and St. Pete gave me my very own Barbie doll.”
He closed her dropped jaw by cradling her chin and fanned his thumb across her bottom lip. “I had a strong notion you'd object to being called Barbie doll, and you're all soft and cuddly like a kitten. And no, I've never called any woman other than you baby doll. Why? You object?”
Luminous dark orbs misted and fringed by dense lashes stared into his. No longer feeling the teasing draft of her breath, Linc coaxed, “Breathe, Destiny. Take a nice long inhale and lift your arms.”
She complied, shaking her head every couple of seconds.
He tugged the fabric down to her neck.
Chewing on her lip, and darting him the sweetest side-peeps, she shoved her arms through the tee's sleeves.
“About that breakfast you promised me?” He smoothed the soft cotton where the hem curled at the tops of her thighs and took a step back, giving her more personal space.
She rested one palm on the fridge, rubbed curled toes on one taut calf, and squeezed her eyes shut once, twice, and on the third planted both soles on the floor. “Right. Breakfast.”
“I'll grab some potatoes. How many
“I don't have a concussion.” He tucked a silken lock behind her ear. “I figure we have at least twenty-four hours before civilization intrudes. You've had the paratrooper in a pear tree, and I'm pretty sure there're no turtledoves in Alaska. So instead, we'll decorate the tree, and I'll carve you a couple birds to hang on it. Hence, the popcorn.”
Her nipples scraped his chest, but his carnal cravings had subsided, replaced by a tenderness that cascaded to a burning sweetness as her every thought flickered over her face.
“What? Why're you frowning?”
A tear formed, hung for a minute, then surfed the ridge of her cheekbone; she sniffed.
“No tears, please, Destiny.” He hugged her, smoothing a palm up and down her spine and leaned his forehead against hers. “What's wrong now?”
“I must be dreaming, because you're way too good to be real.” Twin trails of dampness smeared both cheeks. She snuffled and swiped at the moisture. “I never cry. And I'm not sentimental. And I don't believe in happy ever after.”
“That mean you don't want the tree?” Some shithead had shattered her little-girl innocence into fine shards. Linc made a mental note to have his buddy, Lucifer, do a complete background check on her. He captured her gaze by tipping her chin. “Destiny, do you want the tree or not? This is your call.”
She snagged her lower lip with two teeth, splayed both hands on his pecs, and studied his stubble for long seconds. “I'll fix you breakfast and find the popcorn.”
Linc forced himself to retreat, even though he wanted to preen and crow at the small victory.
“Deal.” He dropped a kiss on her nose, let his arms swing to his sides, and then scoured the cabin for her T-shirt.
He'd won this skirmish. One small step toward trust.
Spying the white cotton near the fridge, Linc took a long step, bent, and scrunched the material with one hand.
“Thank you.” She'd followed him and stood mere inches to the left of the fabric sprouting from his clasped fingers.
He glanced at her outstretched hand, brought the T-shirt to his nose, and inhaled. “Smells of you, all lavender and spice. Lift your arms, Baby Doll.”
“Do you call all the women you sleep with baby doll?” She cut him a furious scowl and thrust out her jaw.
Destiny had the equivalent of buyer's remorse, Linc deduced, having seen the same response from every one of his sisters during that first phase of a romance, both wanting to trust and terrified of doing so.
“The first time I set eyes on you, I thought I'd entered the Christian parallel to a Muslim's fatwa reward—you know, the seventy virgins in paradise. I figured I'd ascended to heaven and St. Pete gave me my very own Barbie doll.”
He closed her dropped jaw by cradling her chin and fanned his thumb across her bottom lip. “I had a strong notion you'd object to being called Barbie doll, and you're all soft and cuddly like a kitten. And no, I've never called any woman other than you baby doll. Why? You object?”
Luminous dark orbs misted and fringed by dense lashes stared into his. No longer feeling the teasing draft of her breath, Linc coaxed, “Breathe, Destiny. Take a nice long inhale and lift your arms.”
She complied, shaking her head every couple of seconds.
He tugged the fabric down to her neck.
Chewing on her lip, and darting him the sweetest side-peeps, she shoved her arms through the tee's sleeves.
“About that breakfast you promised me?” He smoothed the soft cotton where the hem curled at the tops of her thighs and took a step back, giving her more personal space.
She rested one palm on the fridge, rubbed curled toes on one taut calf, and squeezed her eyes shut once, twice, and on the third planted both soles on the floor. “Right. Breakfast.”
“I'll grab some potatoes. How many
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