KAT
Burning Bright
Dave's mouth writes poetry on my skin that would make Byron weep with envy, each kiss a perfectly crafted stanza about desire and divinity getting tangled up in mortal flesh. His hands—those beautiful, work-roughened hands that can heal with a touch or call down biblical rain—map my body like he's cartographing undiscovered country. Which is ridiculous, considering he spent two very thorough hours this morning exploring this exact terrain.
"You taste different," he murmurs against my collarbone, voice gone gravel-road rough. The scrape of his stubble sends sparks down my spine like struck matches. "Like summer lightning and wildflower honey and—" His teeth find the mate mark, and I swear I see actual stars. "—mine."
"All yours," I gasp, arching into him because appar
