Three Wishes by Jenny Schwartz Page A

were on opposite sides. She couldn’t believe that he cared about her.
    “Sit down.”
    He sat on a long divan, a daybed where she often read or lounged, writing music to play on her guitar. The guitar sat in a corner of the room in the shadows. Light came through filigree windows from the pattern etched into the outside of the djinni bottle.
    She took the lid off the jar and smoothed some ointment over the burn on Andrew’s face. He watched her eyes. She avoided his.
    “How is your chest?”
    For answer, he stripped his shirt off over his head.
    There was no burn.
    Cali glanced back at Andrew’s face. The burn there had already faded.
    She replaced the jar lid with a snap. “If you can heal yourself, you should have said. I’m wasting my time.”
    “I wanted your hands on me, the indulgence of your care.” He sat half-naked on her divan and dared to woo her.
    “Put your shirt back on.” She returned the jar to the bathroom and washed her hands. The lavender soap had the sharp fresh scent of dewy mornings. She splashed cool water on her face and tasted it on her lips. The touch of her tongue reminded her of Andrew’s kiss. She blinked at her reflection in the mirror and saw the water spiking her eyelashes almost like tears. A rough scrub with the towel took care of that resemblance.
    Andrew had to leave. She stalked back into the main room, intent on kicking him out.
    He hadn’t put his shirt back on.
    “Leave.” The muscles of his chest tempted her to look. Then her hands wanted to follow her eyes and trace the definition of his muscles, to smooth over his shoulders and appreciate his strength. But she was strong. She was a djinni—she offered temptation, she didn’t succumb to it. “Out. I didn’t invite you to my home.”
    “Your bedroom.”
    “Just go.”
    He stood slowly. “I stole a kiss, but what I really want from you has to be a gift. Desire has to be given freely, has to be shared, or there’s no satisfaction. Touch me without the excuse of healing. Trace patterns on my skin. Watch me respond to you. I want you, love.”
    Color burned under her skin. She could imagine touching him. Her body responded to her thoughts. Fear and fascination kept her silent, anchored between caution and desire.
    “What if I promise not to touch you?” Andrew offered. His voice was so low the vibrations rumbled along her nerves. “My pursuit scared you. What if I stand here and you do as you will? You can trust me. You just have to learn me.”
    “I can’t trust you. And you can’t trust me.”
    For answer he took her hands, kissed each palm with solemn approval and placed them on his chest.
    The warmth of his skin heated her clear through. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the racing of his heart. His eyes were intent, willing her to accept his invitation. To touch him.
    Her fingers curled just enough that the nails grazed his skin. His eyes closed. His mouth tightened in control and need.
    It was his responsiveness that undid her.
    He stood like a rock, feet wide to stabilize himself as her hands explored and massaged his chest and shoulders. She traced the veins on his arms, saw his nostrils flare and knew he’d opened his eyes and was watching her.
    “I like touching you,” she said huskily and returned her hands to his chest and teased his nipples. The heat in his eyes excited her as much as his ragged breathing, and under it all was the singing knowledge that he controlled himself to give her power. This choice was hers.
    She leaned forward a fraction and tugged his nipple with her lips.
    “Sweet heaven, love” he ground out. His hips thrust against her. “Let me hold you.”
    She released his nipple to look up at him and smile. “Sit down.” A push reinforced the order and he fell back onto the divan. She followed him down, straddling his lap and kneeling up to kiss his mouth.
    He groaned and took her mouth fiercely. His hands remained by his sides, his arms rigid with tension as he held