Brontë laughs quietly, opening his book and threading his fingers through mine. “Sleep,Petit Diable.You’ll need it for your session with V tomorrow morning.”
Dr. V left it up to me to resume our therapy visits whenever I saw fit. The first day I was awake for more than an hour at a time, I made the call. I can’t afford any more hazardous episodes, especially not after that last panic attack crippled me from defending myself and broughtme too close to the grim reaper. The next one could literally prove to be fatal.
I yawn again, nestling into the sea of pillows. Brontë smiles softly and leans over to brush a kiss to my cheek, far too chaste for my liking. I snag his shirt before he can straighten.
“Sleep with me,mon ange.”
A beat of silence passes, filled by the crackling hearth and the featherlighttap, tap, tapof snow against the windows.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Poppy.”
“I meantactualsleep. The bags beneath your eyes are sagging worse than an old hag’s tits.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shit at giving compliments?”
I toss him a droll look. “I’m obviously not going to jump your bones with all these stitches keeping my insides from spilling out.”
He sighs through his nose, eyeing me. “Can I trust you to keep your hands to yourself?”
“I take offense to your complete lack of confidence in my self-control.”
“Youarea heathen.”
“Brontë Bourbon, I’m cold and tired and cranky. If you don’t get in here, I’m going to gut you and then crawl inside your stomach to use your corpse as my bed out of pure fucking spite.”
“Raziel.” He plops his book aside with a half-hearted glare and unlaces his boots. “If you’re going to use my name like a weapon, you may as well know the whole thing.”
“Raziel.” It tastes like ambrosia on my tongue. “Which angel is that?”
“The one who records divine secrets.”
“That’s actually very accurate. You do like to keep secrets.”
He scoffs and tugs the duvet, but I yank it back.
“Strip.”
He blinks. “Excusez-moi?”
“You heard me. Take off your clothes.”
“Poppy—”
“Everything but your boxers. Go on.”
Brontë curses under his breath but concedes, reaching between his shoulder blades to doff his shirt in a single fluid motion. Warm firelight and cool moonlight eagerly lick between the deep grooves and high rises of his thick arms and broad chest and rippling abs, caressing his strong jaw and lapping the scar on his right cheek in ways nothing else ever could.
I’m fuckingenviousof that light.
He grins like a cat. “Like what you see?”
Who wouldn’t?“Take off the rest, you egotistical brute.”
“Egotistical brute? Is that meant to be an insult?”
“Hurry the fuck up, BrontëRazielBourbon.”
His laughter licks up my spine as he continues to undress.