trying to survive.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. I already had the survival thing down pat.
Ben turned back to the glass wall and looked out with a sigh over the city we both patrolled. I joined him, pressing my forehead against the cool glass, and let the lights below blur into a blinding stream of nothingness. We call it camera shake in photography; when the camera moves and the shutter is open long enough to cause an overall blur. The effect was mostly undesirable, except for times like this.
Together we looked out at this strange city where the play of shadow and light was more pronounced than in any other until finally he said, “There has to be more to life than survival.”
There hadn’t been for me, I conceded, not for a long while. But with Ben standing close, knowing about my past and not flinching, I began to think there might be. I raised my eyes to find him gazing at me. Not just gazing, but seeing.
How long had it been since I’d been truly seen?
And the look on his face was so soft and clear it was practically translucent. Probably, I thought, a good reflection of my own. Just then, I would have loved to frame that face with my camera lens. Capture that moment, and him, forever. God, what a beautiful man.
I froze suddenly. “Please don’t tell me I said that aloud.”
Ben straightened, grinning wickedly. “You did. You said I was beautiful.”
Embarrassed, I turned away, but his hand, wide and firm and warm, grasped my shoulder. He turned me toward him again and held all of me there; body, eyes, and mind.
“If I’m beautiful,” he said, thumbs tickling against the inside of my elbows, “then you’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”
I ducked my head automatically, though my pulse points hummed. “My sister’s stunning,” I said, “I’m strong.”
“You’re stunning and strong,” he murmured, and moved in closer.
I lifted my head and leaned into him. It felt natural, and my pulse throbbed. “Go on.”
His lips quirked up at one side as he drew me against him. “You’re stunning and strong, Joanna Archer, and you’re about to be kissed.”
And I knew exactly what he would taste like. Ambrosia. The breaking of a fast. Water, pure, clean, and spring-clear after a ten-year drought. All the relevant clichés applied.
How masochistic, I thought, sighing as his mouth moldedto mine. Instantly back in love with a man I’d spent a decade trying to get over. Anyone have a dull razor blade? Cat-o’-nine-tails? Old, rusty nails?
Yet this was also a first. The first taste of a man whose lips and arms and body touched the expected places in unexpected ways. The first hint of underlying passion, like touching a battery to the tip of my tongue, that metallic zap of pure power just aching to course over into me. The glory of a man whose flesh and cellular structure spoke to my own but, biology and chemistry and pheromones aside, one who just felt fucking great wrapped around me.
“Jo-Jo?” Ben finally said, breaking away.
“Hmm?” I still hadn’t opened my eyes. It’d been so long. Why hadn’t I known I needed this, wanted it—had been missing it—for so damned long?
“You’re groping a senior officer.”
I smiled against his shirt and moved my hand. “Gonna put it in your statement?”
“Gonna ask you for a date.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of my head. “You never say no, right?”
I pulled back and peered into his face. “I object to the implication. I say no to some things.”
“Gonna say no to me?”
“No.”
He smiled, lifted a hand to my face and caressed it, his touch impossibly gentle. I wasn’t used to being handled gently. In truth, I wasn’t used to being handled at all. Certainly not by a man who could be both as hard as granite and as soft as a feather. So much new to discover here, I thought, lifting my head to kiss the hollow of his neck.
“Your cheek is bruised,” he murmured, voice hoarse.
I leaned into him, offering up