Her cheeks burnt with those memories and she ducked her head, hair falling like a sheet to either side and tried to focus on the running stich that looped down the edge of the fabric, taming the edges that threatened to fray. They’d come together in exquisite passion and she’d made a determined attempt to learn all the places on Malcolms’ skin that made him burn. At some point, the stew he’d made the night before had been rediscovered and devoured. She’d never known hunger like it.
The needle slid beneath the fabric, peeking through a few fibres later. She pulled it through, knotting it on the back, circling back around before the stiches then starting fanning out in even lines. Her knot became the centre of a blue flower, the fanning lines the petals. This was her retreat, her only escape from the large physicality of her chosen vocation. Usually it settled her heart rate and helped her head to clear. But every quick glance through the curtain at the man, sleeping on the bed, was enough to quicken her heart rate again.
The bowls of stew were still abandoned on the kitchen floor. She’d teased him about his cooking and he had taken her by surprise, pulling her up from where she’d sat on the chair and into another endless kiss. Elyna closed her eyes and tilted her head back in the final warm rays. She remembered, vividly the sensation of his mouth moving over her throat, being lifted onto the table top, shirt hitched up around her waist and pulled in bunches. Heat rose up the curve of her neck and she let out a sigh of remembered pleasure. It had been a good day. When had they spent themselves? How had they ended up back here, in Malcolms bedroom? The details were fuzzy, a delicious hangover of passion; because they didn’t matter. Her heart, body and soul had been utterly claimed. She lent out from her nook once more to peer at him before hiding once more.
She traced the line of pale embroidery with a fingertip and started anew. The questions long quelled in breathless adventure were slipping back into her thoughts as her mind cleared. What had Malcolm told her? What hadn’t he told her? The needle slipped and poked into her finger, she swore beneath her breathe and lifted the digit to her mouth, licking the tiny speck of blood away. What was it about needle wounds, they stung so badly, but they stopped bleeding so quick?
The skyrider still couldn’t believe he hadn’t gone on Patrol, what would Ben and Heath had said? Would the whole world know? Did it matter?