“What’s the lion tattoo for?” I ask him. “What’s the story?”

That startles him and I can tell it’s a soft spot. “What are you on about?”

I point to his forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some stories. About your tattoos. Why you have them.”

He rakes his teeth over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”

“Yes,” I tell him impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good fucking.”

“Ah, yes. That explains it.”

“Well, give me something.”

“If I give you something, will you give me something?”

I can’t help but grin like a fool. “Of course.”

“Okay then.” He pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his gaze absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”

I am lightheaded at the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to him like a magnet. I put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and straddle him. We are so close. Our mouths inches away.

He’s breathing hard. I’m breathless.

He’s a wall of muscle and ink. I’m soft, yielding against him.

“So, ask away,” he says, that voice low and rough, yet cashmere cream. That voice I’ll hear in my dreams long after he’s gone.

His eyes never leave my lips.

I lean back to get a better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I decide to leave the lion alone for now, and run my fingers over his shoulder, the taut, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted ink, a masterfully shaded old ship with tall sails spreads onto his chest.

“This one,” I say softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”

He chews on his lip for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I backpeddled with life for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed through and was better for it. A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for.” He tilts his head as if observing me, though I’m the one watching him. “It helps me when I get scared. To keep going.”

“You get scared?” I ask him, unable to picture this strong, powerful man, afraid of anything at all.

“All the time,” he says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at times? We’re born here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get through it, to live each day without dying. We live, and if we don’t, we die.” He looks away, gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last one of us.”

I know I am. Of so many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like him could feel the same way as someone like me.

I trail my fingers along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read out. “Latin, I assume?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”

“Never again, what?”

His mouth quirks up into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”

“Is that all I’m going to get?”

“From that, yes,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. His pupils are so large, they hypnotize me. “You get one more. Then you’re giving me something.”

I breathe in deeply and look over every inch of him. The lion. “Hope before Death” across his side. A paw print on his inner arm. A flock of ravens swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve. A crest with what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest on his chest. I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the center. “Corda. Serrata. Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.

“I open locked hearts,” he says.

I still, watching him close. “What?”

“I open locked hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a Lockhart. That is the clan’s motto.”

“Again, that’s terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I touch his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”

“Aye, though it should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”

“'S rioghal mo dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”

“Royal is my race,” he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “But I’m not a McGregor and it’s not my race. So that explains a lot.”

I run my hand down the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think I’d rather you a romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”

He leans in, slowly opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I was a warrior?”

I lower my voice. “I say you’re a warrior.”

You’re my warrior.

For now.

He lifts his chin. “What else do you say?”

I adjust myself on his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to undo the top button, bracing myself on his shoulder. “I say you need to get your cock out, warrior.”

He reaches out and lets his hands drift down over my hair. “Lead you into battle?”

“Something like that.” I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper. I can feel him hard, bare, ready beneath me. I’m wet as hell again.

He knows. He puts one hand at the small of my back, the other slipping between my legs, pushing the dress up. My clit screams with pleasure the moment his fingers slide against me, slick and hard.

“Christ,” he murmurs, staring at me with shiny eyes. “You’re always good to go.”

“Only with you,” I say, leaning forward and kissing along his neck, taking in his woodsy, spicy scent that throws me into another wave of lust. I could live my whole life with my face buried here, feeling the pulse along his neck, smelling every ounce of this primal man.

“That suits me just fine, love,” he says, grabbing my dress and pulling it over my head. “Get this off. I want to suck on those fantastic tits of yours.”

Jeez. Even the way he says “tits” is nearly enough to make me come. Then again, the man could read the phonebook in that warm, slightly growly voice of his, and it would be better than the dirtiest erotica.

I raise my arms and the dress is gone, and I’m completely naked now on his lap. Seems to be a common theme here.

But I don’t feel any shame, and if I’m vulnerable at all, it’s eclipsed by the way he’s staring at me, nearly dumbfounded, as if he can’t believe his luck. His eyes rake over my body, hot with desire I can feel. He frowns, almost in anger, and mutters something so low I can’t hear.

Then he’s leaning over, cupping my breast with large, warm hands, and pulling my nipple into his mouth. My body becomes a roman candle, fizzing, burning, begging to go off.

I moan loudly, grinding myself into his cock, desperate for penetration.

“Easy,” he murmurs, sending more shivers along my spine, his tongue lapping at my nipple until it nearly hurts. My other breast is practically aching, needing his touch, and when he moves his wet, hot mouth over, my body shakes in relief.

“Fuck,” I say with a moan, throwing my head and shoulders back, trying to push myself into him, wild, crazy, and desperate for more. I reach down and around, grasping his cock and pulling it out of his pants.

“Easy,” he warns again, pulling his mouth away from me. “You don’t know the power you have,” he says, gazing up at me.

“I think I do,” I tease, gripping him harder.

He pinches his eyes shut, his full, luscious mouth dropping open in a moan. God, his sounds completely undo me, a thread being pulled looser and looser until I’m flayed at the seams.

“Please, love,” he begs, cupping my face with his hand while staring feverishly at my lips. “Not yet. Let me at least get a condom out before I lose it.” He reaches for his cargo pocket but I put my hand on top of his.

“Let me,” I tell him. I reach in and pull it out, tearing the foil open with one hand. He leans in, kissing me lightly, lips brushing lips, until I start unrolling the condom over his thick, wet head. Then the kiss deepens, a slow, hard pull that reaches deep inside me, feeding the hunger. Our mouths, lips, and tongues dance like savages with each other, violent and ravenous and wild.