Sinclair carried me up to bed the moment we got home, which was silly because I could walk perfectly well. I was pretty sure. Actually, given that it was only about 1:00 a.m. I was awfully tired.
The last thing I felt before I conked off was him pulling my engagement ring off my finger. I hope he threw it into the nearest sewer. Boy, was I going to give him a piece of my mind when I. . .
I sat up. The bedside clock said 5:30 p.m. Sinclair was at his desk, scribbling on papers, but looked up and was at my side in half a second.
"Elizabeth-"
"Dead."
"-are you-"
"You are so dead ."
"-all right?"
"You gave me a used engagement ring?" I yelped.
He looked pained as he sat down beside me. "Antique."
"Used."
"As you like. I am very sorry."
I slumped back against the pillows and slapped a hand over my eyes. "You couldn't have known. Friendly helpful Marjorie, right?"
"I thought a ring set with stones that had belonged to a queen would be a fitting gift."
"Zombie.Dead dad. Dead stepmother. Well, the dead stepmother might actually not be so bad. . . but then YOU almost died!"
"I am very sorry."
I removed my hand and looked at him. His fierce dark gaze was boring into me, and his hands were trembling. "Oh, hey. Like I said. You couldn't have known. You got rid of it, right?"
"I did. I-"
"Never mind. I don't care if I never see the thing again, and I sure don't want to know what you did with it. Also, we're going to Tiffany's to pick out a new one, right?" "If you wish."
"You look like hell."
"I was. . . terrified for you. I was certain she would kill you. And I was useless. Worse than useless. I could hear what was happening but could not help. I-"
"Come here," I said. "Have I mentioned I missed you like crazy?"
"Not that I recall."
"Well, I have. Missed you like crazy, I mean." I was tugging at his shirt, and buttons were flying all over the place. "Place just isn't the same without you. And hey! Next time the Big Bad lures you out of the house, maybe you could leave a note?"
"Or even text message you," he agreed solemnly I was frantic to get his clothes off, frantic to touch him, feel him, taste him. I heard cloth tear as I got his shirt off, broke his belt buckle, tore at his pants.
I gripped his hips with my knees and knelt down to have a bite or two. Or three. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
"Oh boy," he groaned.
It was so fucking fine to have him in my house, my bed. It was everything I'd missed and then some. It was a dream come true.
(For me as well, my own.)
And oh, it was so good to feel him against me, his hands on me. I pulled at him until we were both sitting up, me still on top, and we kissed hungrily, as if we couldn't get enough air. Or enough of each other. He pushed and I went over. . .
.. . and then I pushed, and I was back on top again.
Mine, I thought.
Yours, he agreed.
I straddled him to get closer, to take him inside of me, and rode him with great delight, staring at the ceiling while his fingers dug into my hip bones. He nipped at my fingers, and I swooped down to kiss him again.
Oh, Sinclair.
Elizabeth. My own, my queen, my dread queen. Wait a minute. Are we-?
I beg you. Do not destroy the moment with a rude gesture or thought. But we're- Yes.
You can- Yes.
I love you.
Yes. Oh, yes. Right.. . . .. there.