Free Grave Secret by Sierra Dean Page A

fair game. That mark was why Desmond had left. Basically Lucas had taken a big metaphysical whizz all over my aura, staking his claim.
    Instead of letting him pull away, I twined my fingers through his short hair and clamped down, making sure he was looking at me this time.
    “I’m not his.”
    “You smell—”
    It was my turn to growl, and I bit his lower lip before speaking again. “If you don’t want me to smell like him, make me smell like you ,” I instructed.
    For a moment I thought he might refuse.
    Then I was on my back on the coffee table.

Chapter Twelve
    Our forgotten beers flew off the table and onto the floor.
    I gave up fumbling with his shirt buttons and had gone instead to the belt buckle digging into my pelvis. He shucked off my jacket and sent it flying over the couch, then pulled me abruptly into a sitting position, my ass on the edge of the low wood table.
    “Take that off,” he said, his voice husky and commanding.
    At first I thought he meant my shirt, but then I realized I was still wearing my holster and gun. Carefully I removed the leather straps and did a quick check to make sure the weapon was safetied before placing it on the couch rather than having it thrown somewhere. The second I had the gun out of my hands, he was untucking my shirt and pulling it over my head. I undid the last of his shirt buttons and pushed it off his shoulders before I tugged his belt free of the loops on his pants with a flourish.
    With his shirt off, I could see the scar on his chest. A small, near-perfect circle slightly puckered on the edges where the silvery skin was still pink. I touched it, reaching out slowly to give him plenty of time to pull away or move my hand. He didn’t. Instead he stopped what he was doing and watched as the pad of my thumb brushed the smooth circle of flesh.
    In response he touched a matching silver scar on my shoulder, making me shiver. He leaned me back onto the coffee table again, his mouth finding the scar on my stomach where I’d been run through by the katana which now hung over my fireplace. My collection of permanent scars was more impressive than his, but for some reason the little circle on his chest hurt me worse than any of my wounds had.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, placing a kiss on the scar.
    “I’m not.”
    “You could have died.” He was busy undoing my pants, but he went still when I said it.
    “I didn’t. And neither did you.” He said it in such a way that I knew we were done with this topic. I hated how he’d been hurt because of me, but he considered it worthwhile because I was alive.
    I pulled him against me so his bare skin touched mine and neither of our scars was showing. For a moment I just wanted to hold him close and feel him breathe with me the way we used to when we slept in the same bed night after night. I’d missed the sex, absolutely. But I’d missed him more. His warm skin, his scent, the cadence of his breathing. Every tiny fiber that made him Desmond was something I had craved like oxygen since he’d left.
    Finally, when I thought I might break down and cry from the overwhelming emotion of what being near him was doing to me, I bit his earlobe and whispered, “Take off your pants.”
    He was up in a heartbeat, kicking off his work pants and socks, which made me chuckle warmly. He pinned me with a warning expression. “You won’t be laughing long.”
    Biting my lip, I fought the urge to tease him more, but with him looming over me it was almost impossible to find anything to laugh at. His skin was olive over the perfectly toned planes of his body. His legs and arms were corded with muscle, and his abs might as well come with a Lick Me sign attached to them. The dark hair over his chest formed a thin trail down his stomach, begging my eyes to follow from his bellybutton to the low waist of his black boxer briefs. The cotton on his underwear was straining dramatically, and I got wetter just looking at him.
    My mouth was dry and my