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Gods, yes. “Likewise,” she croaked.

Release shimmered in her, a wild and reckless song, and she rode his hand toward it. His other hand cupped her backside. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten this particular asset,” he murmured, squeezing for emphasis. “I have plans for this beautiful ass, Bryce. Filthy, filthy plans.”

She moaned again, and his fingers stroked into her, over and over.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he purred against her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple just as one of his fingers curled inside her, hitting that gods-damned spot.

Bryce did. Hunt’s name on her lips, she tipped her head back and let go, riding his hand with abandon, driving them both into the couch cushions.

He groaned, and she swallowed the sound with an openmouthed kiss as every nerve in her body exploded into glorious starlight.

Then there was only breathing, and him—his body, his scent, that strength.

The starlight receded, and she opened her eyes to find him with his head tipped back, teeth bared.

Not in pleasure. In pain.

She’d driven him into the cushions. Shoved his wounded back right up against the couch.

Horror lurched through her like ice water, dousing any heat in her veins. “Oh gods. I am so sorry—”

He cracked his eyes open. That groan he’d made as she came had been pain, and she’d been so fucking wild for him that she hadn’t noticed—

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, hoisting herself up from his lap, reaching to remove his fingers, still deep inside her.

He halted her with his other hand on her wrist. “I’ll survive.” His eyes darkened as he looked at her bare breasts, still inches from his mouth. The dress shoved halfway down her body. “I have other things to distract me,” he murmured, leaning down for her peaked nipple.

Or trying to. A grimace passed over his face.

“Dark Hel, Hunt,” she barked, yanking out of his grip, off his fingers, nearly falling from his lap. He didn’t even fight her as she grabbed his shoulder and peered at his back.

Fresh blood leaked through his bandages.

“Are you out of your mind?” she shouted, searching for anything in the immediate vicinity to press against the blood. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“As you like to say,” he panted, shaking slightly, “it’s my body. I decide its limits.”

She reined in the urge to strangle him, grabbing for her phone. “I’m calling a medwitch.”

He gripped her wrist again. “We’re not done here.”

“Oh yes we fucking are,” she seethed. “I’m not having sex with you when you’re spouting blood like a fountain.” An exaggeration, but still.

His eyes were dark—burning. So Bryce poked his back, a good six inches beneath his wound. His answering wince of pain settled the argument.

Setting her underwear to rights and sliding her dress back over her chest and arms, she dialed the public medwitch number.

The medwitch arrived and was gone within an hour. Hunt’s wound was fine, she’d declared, to Bryce’s knee-wobbling relief.

Then Hunt had the nerve to ask if he was cleared for sex.

The witch, to her credit, didn’t laugh. Just said, When you’re able to fly again, then I’d say it’s safe for you to be sexually active as well. She nodded toward the couch cushions—the bloodstain that would require a magi-spell to erase. I’d suggest whatever … interaction caused tonight’s injury also be postponed until your wings are healed.

Hunt had looked ready to argue, but Bryce had hurried the witch out of the apartment. And then helped him to his bed. For all his questions, he swayed with each step. Nearly collapsed onto his bed. He answered a few messages on his phone, and was asleep before she’d shut off the lights.

Cleared for sex, indeed.

Bryce slept heavily in her own bed, despite what she’d learned and seen about the synth.