He wanted to do that now. Then again, he wanted the woman he found in the kitchen, who said, “Hey, Bowman,” and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Want to dance?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bowman didn’t bother to ask where Ryan had gone. This was a dream—Ryan would be well, and Kenzie and Bowman were alone.

Kenzie kissed his lips, then she took a step back, unzipped the dress, and let it fall, showing him what he’d suspected that night at the roadhouse—she wore nothing underneath but a pair of black lace panties.

This Kenzie was not from his past. She was his Kenzie now. Her body showed new lines, her breasts were rounder, her nipples large and dark.

Her attitude hadn’t changed, though, even after fifteen years of being mated to him. She canted her hip and smiled up into his face. “Now, what about my dance?”

Bowman snarled. The haziness had gone, and he saw everything sharp and clear—the table empty of dishes, one light on against the growing dusk, the smile of his mate.

He caught her by the shoulders. Kenzie’s lashes swept down, but not in shyness. Her hands, strong and competent, landed on his chest.

She let out a laugh when her butt bumped the edge of the table. Bowman was still growling, the animal in him needing release . . . Who was he kidding? Everything in him needed release.

Kenzie was gorgeous, her strong legs lifting under his touch, her soft hips pressing the table, her look growing languid. Bowman skimmed the panties off her and tossed them aside. Stepping between her legs, he leaned down and kissed her abdomen, then her navel, making her laugh.

He kissed his way lower. Kenzie stopped laughing as he brushed his lips over the tender place between her thighs.

She groaned. “Oh, no.”

Oh, yes. Why not? Bowman licked her, tasting the beauty of her. Salt and sweet rolled together on his tongue, the scent of her arousal heightening his own.

Kenzie rocked beneath him, moving with what he did. Bowman hooked his arms around her knees, lifted her hips, and slid his tongue all the way inside her.

He loved the sounds she made of pure pleasure. No coy protests, no timidity. Kenzie enjoyed making love and had no qualms about letting him know.

Bowman appreciated that. He knew that if he pressed his fingers there, she’d jump and hum in pleasure. If he licked there, the hum would turn to a sharp cry. If he thrust his tongue into her like that, she’d go crazy, her hands in his hair, begging him for more.

“Love,” she gasped. “Love you.”

Fire flowed with the words, erasing every restraint Bowman put on himself. He licked and suckled her, playing with her as she lifted to him, her coming sweet.

He was wearing too many clothes. Bowman yanked off his shirt and jeans, hearing something tear, but he didn’t care. He threw the clothes from him and pressed Kenzie back down as she started to rise from the table.

His cock was thick and hard, hot with wanting. Kenzie glanced down at it and sent him a tiny smile.

Bowman lost his last shred of control. He lifted Kenzie’s hips, pulling them off the table, positioned himself, and slid swiftly inside her. All the way. Kenzie’s eyes widened, and she rose on her elbows.

She was used to him, and yet she watched him in wonder, as though this was their first time together. The same joyful discovery, the same burst of mating need.

Kenzie was tight, wonderfully tight, but she knew how to take him, how to rise to him so they fit perfectly. She clung to his arms, his skin slick with sweat, the cold of the winter evening nothing. Her cries of joy and the sound of their bodies against the table wound him into white-hot pleasure.

She was his. Only his. Not Gil’s or whoever the hell he was. Kenzie belonged to Bowman. Always.

“Love you,” he said, the words hoarse. He found it difficult to speak when they made love—he always struggled to put his profoundest emotions into words. But this was a dream, and he could let the words pour forth. “Loved you from the first day I saw you. It doesn’t matter about the mate bond, or the Goddess, or any of that shit.”

Kenzie’s eyes widened, the gold of them glinting in the dim light.

“It’s you and me that matter, Kenz,” he went on. “You’re my mate, the love of my life . . . My everything.”

“Bowman . . .” she whispered.

Kenzie reached for him. Bowman’s climax grabbed him at the same time, his coming twisting him like a tornado wind. He threw his head back, groaning, shouting words—no idea what he said, but mate, mine, love were all in there somewhere.

When he looked down at Kenzie again, his breath coming fast, she tucked one arm behind her head and smiled at him. “We are good together,” she said softly.

“Yes,” Bowman answered. “Damn it. Yes.”

Then the dream rushed away—Kenzie, the table, the kitchen, and the light swirling like watercolors on oil—and all was darkness.

* * *

Bowman opened his eyes. He was lying on his side on the bed in their bedroom, still in his clothes. His eyes were sandy, his mouth parched.

He rolled himself off to land on his feet, then sat quickly back down, his head spinning. He put his hands to it, groaning.

Time had passed. The room was dark, the clock on the nightstand telling him it was nine P.M. Damn it. He was supposed to have met Cade and Jamie at seven to compare notes and discuss what Bowman and Cristian had found up in the woods.

Kenzie opened the door and walked in. She was in a sweatshirt and jeans, but she looked as good as she had in that slinky black dress—though maybe her standing in only the panties had been a little better. She carried a big glass of water, which she wordlessly handed to him.