celiabreslin

A blush blossomed on her cheeks. He kept his attention on her face, but it was hard to do with her curves spilling out from her tiny shirt and shorts.

Curiosity seemed to overrule her fear, as she raised a hand as if to touch his face, then seemed to think better of it. A pang of disappointment surprised him. Damn it all, he wanted to feel the press of her palm against his skin.

“It must be hard,” she murmured, then nibbled her lip again, as if squashing the questions her expressive face indicated she yearned to ask.

Her inquisitiveness fascinated him, and he found himself settling on the ground and mimicking her position. “What must be?” he prompted.

“People can suck. I can imagine the stares you get just because your skin color is different. What medical condition causes it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s genetic.”

“Oh, wow. But not from your mom’s side, right?”

“Mom’s side?”

“Mrs. Murphy is pale and freckled, so your dad must look like you? Or, is it a recessive gene situation? What about your siblings, do they exhibit–?”

She chuckled. “Sorry about the thousand questions. I’m a fiction writer, actually, so it kinda goes with the writing territory.” She pointed at her portable computer, abandoned on a blanket Dealan recognized from the sunporch. “I was working on my latest story, a horror screenplay, before you showed up.”

“I’m interrupting your work.”

“No. I have writer’s block, so distractions are welcome.” She focused on his hair.

“Were you wearing a wig last night? Your dark hair is gorgeous with a capital G–love the blue streaks, by the way–why would you ever cover it up? I could’ve sworn you had pale, freckled skin, too, but the bizarre visuals must have been due to my wicked jet lag and too much wine.”

His lips twitched. She might make him smile, possibly laugh. He never laughed. Growled, roared, snarled, yes, but exhibit mirth? Hardly. […]

“I’m from San Francisco. We don’t have many enormous insects there. A lot of birds, though. Pigeons mostly, some bands of wild parrots, a few hawks, peregrine falcons, and a lot of ravens. Did you know ravens mate for life? I think that’s so cool–”

She clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m babbling.” Her gaze lowered as her fingers slid from her lips to settle on her chest. “Sorry, my brain spins out fast when I’m nervous or really into a topic.”

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He wanted her to be at ease around him, though he wasn’t sure why. No other ever elicited such gentle feelings in him. What was it about her?

“Yes, no, I mean. A little?” A sheepish look crossed her face. “It’s just I don’t know you. Eva said you’re okay, but…”

“After the evening you had, I can understand your hesitation.”

“Right? It was so weird.”

They shared a smile then fell into easy conversation […]

Eventually, silence fell between them, and Dealan lost himself in her bright blue eyes, so alight with her inquisitive nature and intelligence. […]

Above him, the fairies tittered, and teased…

“Ohhhhhh, someone’s in trouble now.”

“Look at that beastly thing in his jeans!”

“Dealan and Melanie sitting under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—”

“That’s enough from you lot,” he snapped, on reflex firing power bolts at them from the fingertips of his free hand. […]

Melanie gaped at them.

“Breathe, lass,” he murmured. […] Dealan lowered Melanie to the blanket then settled on his knees before her. […]

“I’m dreaming, right? […] because, come on, there’s no such thing as fairies” […] she leaned forward and planted her hand in the center of his chest. “Holy crap, your chest is massive.”

Dealan froze, his heart pounding out a rapid rhythm under her palm. What would this unpredictable, alluring woman do next? […]

“I’m dreaming,” she repeated, then a big smile lit up her face. “That means I’m in charge. As I wish.” She rose up onto her knees. “I can do whatever the heck I want.” She snaked a hand around his nape, the other clutching his biceps. “And what I want…is you.”

She tugged his head down and pressed her lips to his.