Page 91 of Fortune's Blade

“Sons of bitches,” Ray muttered, because he would never hurt me. In fact, he was treating me like spun glass, as if he was afraid that I’d break, which was not what I wanted, either. So, I threw off the rest of the damn mittens and kissed him back.

And yes, that had been a good idea, I decided, as the shaking in his hands went away, and the delicacy of his touch followed suit, and—

And I might have been wrong about him not being into it, I thought, as my nightgown hit the floor and he began kissing me all over. Which was nice, which was very nice, because he was warm and he smelled good and his hands were rough with calluses but his hair was soft as silk. And his mouth—

He had a very talented mouth.

But being naked when he was not left me at a disadvantage.

I decided to fix that.

“I’m not much compared to Louis-Cesare,” he said, catching my wrist as I started to strip off his vest.

“Louis-Cesare doesn’t interest me.”

“But Dory—”

“I am not Dory.”

Ray regarded me strangely. “So, what does interest you? What the hell could someone like you see in someone like me?”

This time, it wasn’t said in anger, but more like bewilderment, so I answered him while helping him out of the vest. “Someone curious enough to want to know what lay beyond the confines of our world and brave enough to risk finding out. Someone clever enough to make contacts in a wholly different place, and kind enough to see the good in the dark fey that everyone else seems to despise. Someone selfless enough to put his life on the line for me, over and over, when he didn’t have to.”

“So, you love me for my personality,” he said wryly.

I tilted my head. “Is that a problem?”

“No, I’d just kinda prefer that you were lusting after the bod.”

“I have not yet seen it,” I pointed out.

He sighed. “That’s not gonna make a difference.”

Sometimes, I couldn’t tell with Ray what was self-deprecating humor and what he really believed. He was not a six-foot-four Frenchman, but I already knew that. And what he was, was quite pleasing.

I pulled off the shirt and discovered what I already suspected, that he was slender but had muscle, although not the kind made in a gym.

“The kind made by running for my life,” he said, his hand smoothing up my outer thigh.

He also had a lot of hair, merely a fine dusting on his chest but more on his head, which was silky and dark and fine but poufy because there was so much of it. I let my hands run through it, smoothing it down, only to have it spring back up immediately. I did it again and laughed delightedly. His boys must not have had any of the gel he used back home to try to flatten it down, and nothing else seemed to work.

“Got the type from mom and the amount from the sperm donor,” he breathed, and tried to roll me, but I wasn’t done yet.

I flipped him over and pulled off his trousers, and found a very fine butt, as butts went. I did not have the same appreciation for them that Dory seemed to, but there was literally nothing wrong with it. Or with the rest of him.

In fact, I thought he was rather handsome.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked, puzzled.

“Do you want a list?” he muttered into the mattress, sounding a bit out of breath.

“No.” I didn’t need one. His life was all there, if anyone cared to see it. Calluses and small scars from early years lived mostly outside. A stab wound in his shoulder, stretched out of shape like perhaps he had still been growing at the time he received it. Whip marks on his back, old and faded now, but not erased because he’d acquired them before the Change.

I traced them with a finger and saw him shiver.

Nothing at all wrong, I thought, turning him back over and finding out that my initial impression from that old memory of his had been valid.

“You are very pleasing,” I told him happily.