Chapter Five #2
Back when he was boy, before his father had laid the heavy burden of kingship on his shoulders, he’d often gone out into the scrubby garden of his father’s rundown house after he should have been in bed.
And he’d lie on his back, looking up at the stars.
Pinpricks of light against the black background of space.
Whole worlds, whole galaxies spinning above his head.
He’d felt that simple joy then, at the beauty above him, and a sense of wonder that he too was a tiny part of those galaxies.
He’d forgotten what it felt like to experience joy…to find wonder in such a simple thing as being outside in the sun.
And you did this for her. You gave her this.
The things he did for his country helped his subjects as a whole, but this was personal. Now he’d given this one woman joy, and it made his heart tighten in a way he wasn’t used to.
And it shouldn’t—that was the problem. The way she was getting under his skin felt like…more, somehow. Beyond physical. And that was not allowed.
His father had told him time and time again that a ruler’s feelings didn’t matter. That what was good for the country mattered more.
‘Patience, Tiberius,’ Giancarlo would say sternly, when Tiberius, burning with anger at his mother’s death and desperate to put things right, had tried to argue his father into action, instead of waiting, as his father had counselled.
‘Kasimir will not be served best by impatience and a desire for vengeance. You must put your feelings aside and do what is right for the country, not what is right for you.’
Emotion had no place in a king’s rule and he knew it, and he’d decided long ago that it was easier not to have any at all.
Or rather to learn to channel his grief at being deprived of a mother he didn’t remember and his anger at a father who had put an impossible burden on his shoulders at far too young an age and then waited too long to take back what was his.
All that rage and grief he’d channelled into reclaiming the throne, and now he’d channel those same feelings into rebuilding his country.
There wasn’t room for him to be concerned with the emotions of one small woman, no matter how brave she was.
He let her hand go, since she apparently didn’t need any reassurance, though it was difficult to keep any distance between them with the warmth of her skin against his fingertips.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
She frowned, her fingers clenching into a fist, as if she wanted to keep the touch of his skin against hers with her. Then her expression relaxed and she lifted her face to the sky, clearly enjoying the sun on her skin.
‘I feel…’ she murmured. ‘I feel as if I can breathe again.’
He couldn’t stop looking at that little fist. Holding on to his warmth.
You affect her.
Tiberius turned away abruptly. He didn’t need that thought in his head…he really didn’t.
They continued on through the lavish palace gardens where fountains filled the air with a soft music, then went down more stairs and through a small gate. The orchards lay beyond, situated on a sunny slope.
Guinevere made a delighted sound and ran past him, heading straight to the orange trees. They were in season, and the branches were heavy with fruit.
He followed more slowly, watching her. How childish of her…to run like a little girl to the tree. He almost expected her to hike up her dress and start climbing it.
Was that what it was like to have no burdens whatsoever?
To be free to enjoy the sun and the grass and the trees without having the weight of other people’s expectations on you?
Guinevere had her own burdens, it was true, and they were terrible ones, but now it was as if she’d simply shrugged them off and sprung free, weightless in the sun.
Suddenly he burned to know how she did it—how she made it look so easy to just…step away. To lay down the weight of those burdens and spend a few moments without it crushing you down.
He watched her with a kind of wonder as she stood at the base of a tree, reaching up to try and pick one of oranges hanging just out of her reach. Even on her tiptoes, with her hand outstretched, she couldn’t reach it.
She turned then, her face alight. ‘This might sound crazy, but I could see these trees from the window of my room. And I used to have this fantasy of being able to go outside and pick an orange if I wanted to.’ She glanced back up at the fruit above her.
‘So now I’m here, I’d really like to pick that orange. Could you give me a boost?’
The request was so out of left field it took him a few moments to understand. ‘You…you want me to lift you up?’
She’d gone up on her tiptoes again, reaching up to touch the orange hanging from the branch above her, laughing at little as she tried and failed to touch it. ‘Yes, please.’
He didn’t think it through. He moved over to where she stood, coming to stand in front of her. Then he put his hands on her hips and lifted her so she could pick the orange.
And it was only once she was in his arms, the warmth of her body pressed to his, the sweet, feminine scent of her curling around him, that he realised his mistake.
Because it was a mistake. She felt soft…
so very soft…and he’d almost forgotten what soft felt like.
His life had been hard and from a young age he’d been driven, his father forging him like a blade on the anvil of hardship, of struggle.
He hadn’t missed gentleness, hadn’t missed softness, because he’d never known either. But he could feel both in her, and the dark craving inside him deepened, intensified.
‘You can put me down now,’ Guinevere said breathlessly, holding her fruit and looking down at him with a triumphant expression.
He stared up into her depthless blue eyes, alight with a joy he hadn’t thought was still possible.
Her cheeks were pink and she was warm against him and he didn’t want to put her down.
He wanted to keep hold of her, feel that warmth and softness against him for a little longer, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
Reluctantly he lowered her, doing so slowly, because he couldn’t help himself, easing her down the length of his body so her pretty curves pressed against his…the giving swell of her breasts and hips in his hands, the softness of her thighs sliding down over his.
Her eyes widened, the blue deepening into the most fascinating violet, a blush rose beneath her skin and her lips parted.
At the base of her throat he could see the beat of her pulse, hard and fast. She was still clutching her orange, but she wasn’t looking at it.
She was looking at him as if mesmerised.
Had she liked the feel of him as much as he’d liked the feel of her?
For a second neither of them spoke, then her gaze dipped to his mouth and an arrow of pure desire punched him hard in the stomach, stealing his breath. He should step back, let her go, put some distance between them. But the way she was looking at him was intoxicating.
She wants you. You know she does.
He released her hips and took the orange from her hands. ‘Here,’ he murmured. ‘Let me.’
And he began to peel it slowly.
She didn’t make any effort to step back, remaining where she was, standing close, with barely an inch between them, watching him peel the orange.
It was dangerous to have her so close, to do what he was intending, yet he couldn’t stop. And once he’d finished with the peel and discarded it onto the grass he pulled apart the fruit, holding a segment between his fingers.
‘Open your mouth,’ he ordered softly, letting her see what was in his eyes, making no secret of the desire that tightened every muscle in his body.
This was a challenge—that was all. A test of his own control.
He had no doubt he would pass it. He only wanted to see what would happen if he made it clear that he could feel this electricity between them.
He wanted to know what she’d do. In his head he’d already pictured her blushing deeply and stumbling back—because, after all, her interactions with men hadn’t been pleasant ones.
But she didn’t.
Instead she opened her mouth, her gaze fixed on his.
Desire flared bright inside him, and before he knew what he was doing he’d lifted the segment of orange to her mouth and her small white teeth were taking a bite out of it.
She chewed and swallowed and then took the rest of segment from his fingers, the softness of her mouth brushing against his skin, followed by the touch of her tongue as she licked the juice from his thumb.
An electric shock arced straight through him, stealing his breath, stealing all thought. And then, obeying an urge he couldn’t have resisted if he’d tried, he took her chin in a firm grip and bent his head to taste the sweetness of her mouth.
* * *
Guinevere knew he was going to kiss her.
She could feel it…could see the intention laid bare in his silver eyes.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to get him to lift her up so she could pick the orange, but she hadn’t been thinking straight.
She’d just wanted to pick the fruit. Then, as he’d eased her down the length of his body until she was on her feet again, she hadn’t been thinking at all.
There had been only him and the granite press of his chest against her sensitive breasts. The hard feel of his thighs. The heat of his skin and the smell of him, salt and sea and dry earth, now overlaid with a musky, masculine scent that made her mouth go dry with a new and painful desire.
When he’d taken the orange from her and begun to peel it she hadn’t been able to drag her gaze away from the movement of his hands. Long, blunt fingers…scars on his skin. Large, rough hands and yet gentle enough remove the peel without tearing the delicate skin of the orange itself.
The contrasts in him fascinated her.