Wanted Man (Loki Fanfiction - Book #1)

Chapter Twelve

The next morning, McKenna woke up in a tangle of sheets, blanket, quilt, and god. Loki lay on his side, his arm draped about her waist, his hand flat against her stomach as if he was afraid she'd try to get away from him in her sleep. His left leg from the knee down was over her right leg. She blinked sleep from her eyes, reaching up to rub one and then the other, but that was it. She was perfectly content to simply lie there with him.

Then, with a sigh, Loki rolled onto his back, the hand that had been on her sliding off to come to rest on his stomach. She shifted, facing him and rising onto one elbow. All traces of bruising and healing cuts were gone from his face. Left in their stead was smooth, pale skin. Apparently gods didn't need to worry about shaving, either, for there was no hint of beard to be found on him.

How many women could say they were able to watch a god sleep? She smiled. Not many, that was for sure.

He had a face she could study for years without ever growing tired of seeing. He was just gorgeous—arched black brows, perfect straight nose, strong jaw line, perfect lips. Everything she could ever imagine wanting in a man.

But he wasn't a man. Not an ordinary man, anyway. He promised to return, but would he? Could she trust him? No one else seemed to think him at all trustworthy, and with good reason, but did she have to think it as well? He'd kept his word to her, such as it was.

But could she trust him with something like her heart?

She wanted to. Then again, she wanted to trust Joe as well. And the ones before him. And each time, she had her heart smashed. Her track record with men wasn't exactly a stellar one. She trusted too soon and her judgment often grew clouded by what she wanted to see in a man instead of what she actually saw.

As if able to hear her thoughts, Loki woke. His eyes opened, the lids fluttering as he reached up to stretch his arms overhead. His back arched, and he groaned, although she couldn't tell if it was in pain or appreciation.

Then, his head turned and he offered up a sleepy smile as he leveled an equally sleepy look at her. "Is it morning already?"

"'Fraid so." She rolled onto her stomach, bunching the pillow beneath her. The room was cool, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. The morning sun was clear and pale, splashing across the room, across the foot of the bed.

"You look as if you've something on your mind," he said, mimicking her position. "Something quite weighty."

"No. Just the usual things. How much longer can I lay here before I start to feel like a slug? How long will it be before Shannon comes banging on the door? How bad will traffic be? That kind of stuff."

"What is a slug?"

She smiled. "It's like a snail, only without the shell."

"And a snail is...?"

She sighed. "It's about three inches long, slimy, and gross. Like a leech." He shook his head and she said, "They're gross. That's really all you need to know. They're gross and they move slow. Like me in the morning."

His gaze never wavered. "McKenna."

She couldn't tell him what she was really thinking about. It made her sound like an insecure dolt and she didn't want to come across that way. She was never one to have those What do we mean to each other talks. They always sounded so whiny and stupid.

"What? We should get up and get moving. I don't feel safe here any longer. S.H.I.E.L.D. is just in Point Pleasant," as she spoke, she slid across the bed, away from him, "and I'd rather—oof!"

He'd lunged, snaked an arm about her waist, and hauled her back. "Don't lie to me," he said, his voice low. "What is troubling you?"

"It's stupid. Really. Not worth the time it would take to tell you."