It all made sense. Her anger, her fear, her silence. When she’d thought she couldn’t save me, she’d stupidly chosen to fall on a sword of tragedy, as punishment or as a wild act of pent despair, I couldn’t be sure. A fool’s choice, but also amorous and selfless. Part of me wanted to strangle her, and the other, more insistent piece, wanted to kiss her. And now here she was, focused on the fact that she’d almost died with me instead of the fact she’d saved us both. I cupped her cheek. The tension in her face fell and uncovered a fragile visage, ready to crack.

“You would have died with me?”

“Yes.” Barely a whisper, yet it echoed through my heart, dissipating all my anger like escaping steam.

My free hand threaded through her tangled hair as she tilted her head back. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Thank you,” I garbled around a knot in my throat.

She searched my face, befuddled as if I’d heard her wrong, said the incorrect thing. “For which part?”

“For all of it.” I drew her into a kiss, entwining us together, pressed chest to chest. Not close enough. Instead of her protesting my touch, her heels lifted in my urgent grasp. The warmth of her melted the last several days away like a dream. All the fatigue and weight from our near-death experience lifted. I pressed into her lips, a request for entrance immediately granted. With each stroke of my tongue and sweep of my mouth, I offered her all of me. No words would do. I could have practiced them for years, but they’d never come close to capturing the truth embedded in my heart. All I could do was show her, touch her, love her.

I tore open her chemise and trailed my mouth over her neck and shoulders. I hungered for every part of her. She pushed me back just long enough to grab my tunic in her fists, pulling it out of my trousers. She ran her calloused hands underneath, exploring the muscles along my ribs. My breath hitched as I shuddered from the heat of her skin against mine.

“Take this off,” she demanded.