Chapter Twenty-Nine
His hand trails from my jaw down my throat and over my breastbone.
My heart thunders as he slides his palm down, popping buttons free as he goes.
Then his hand goes lower, pushing down my skirt and my undergarments with it, running his hand down my thighs, until my legs are free.
Slowly, so slowly, he moves his hand back up my stomach and gently brushes both sides of my shirt to the side, and finally, I’m bare before him.
“Viola.” He whispers my name like a last rite.
His hand rests on the center of my stomach, like he can hold me here, keep me here forever.
But we both know that’s a fantasy.
We both know time is not on our side.
My heart thunders in my chest as he looks down at me, perusing my body, consuming me, devouring me. It’s so blatantly indecent, the way he’s looking at me, that my face burns, even as heat pools in my stomach.
And then his eyes flash up to mine. My breath stops. I’ve seen so many emotions in those eyes before—rage, mirth, indifference, even tenderness. But I have never seen the look in them now. His irises are dark silver, shadowed beneath his long lashes—and in them is only pure, raw hunger.
I’m afraid, I think. And I love it.
He lowers himself onto my body, and I can feel the weight of him—the glorious weight of him—as he moves both hands now, down my torso, over my ribs.
His fingers are wonderous.
And for a moment, there’s a grievous ache in my heart to feel them—the realness of them. Those long, lovely musician’s hands on my bare skin.
I can feel his cool breath over my heart, his lips so close, hovering just above skin as he explores, as he learns what my body will do for him. My wrists tug at the knotted tie as I ache to run my fingers through his snowy white hair, to feel the shape of his shoulders.
I shove the thought from my mind—it’ll do no good. Roze is right. It’s time to take what we can. This is all life is willing to give us, and I think we’re both ready to stop fighting it.
We will burn our way to destruction, a great blaze of anarchy, wrapped up together to the last.
His hands move lower, slowly and gently, giving me time to prepare, and to burn. I want to urge him to hurry up, because if he doesn’t touch me soon, I might scream.
And then he does.
His fingers barely graze my center, and a whimper escapes my throat. Roze’s breath is heavy, shuddering.
“Please,” I say, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Please touch me. Please let me go. Please make this last forever.
“Viola,” he whispers, like it’s poetry. His hand is on the side of my face again and I open my eyes to look back at him. “Whatever you want,” he says. “Anything.”
My hands curl into fists. I want to touch him. But I can’t. So instead, I take this. I lift my tied hands and grab hold of his shirt with my fingers, pulling him close until his lips hover just above mine. “Everything,” I breathe against his mouth. “I want everything.”
He exhales, breath blading over my lips. “Thank the fucking Saints.”
And then he touches me. Lightly at first, until I’m gasping into his mouth. And then he’s doing things I can’t name, and my mind goes blissfully blank, every worry and question and fear dissolving into nothing in light of this feeling, this moment, here with him, where I belong.
The cool bite of leather gloves against my burning flesh is better than anything I’ve ever felt. Is this what it’s like? Is this what Cerise was telling me I’m missing? Or is this more?
Because I feel like I’m falling over an edge, and I’ll never climb back up. I know that no matter what happens tomorrow, after this I will divide my life in two. Before Roze Roquelart. And after Roze Roquelart.
His fingers move faster, precise and firm, and I lose control of my body. I crack, shatter, fall to pieces, and I’m left feeling rent and loose.
What was it he said? That he was dedicated to seeing my face as I came undone?
Well …
I am undone.
When I finally open my eyes, there’s something wild in Roze’s. His pale face is flushed, and his breath is harsh. A lock of his hair falls from his face, hanging between us. In one swift movement he loosens my bonds and my hands are freed.
“You. Are. A miracle,” he says. “More wonderful than stars.”
The urge to reach up and stroke his cheek is so strong. “Roze—”
He gives me a sad smile and shakes his head. “No. It’s all right. It’s enough.”
I grab hold of his shirt, touching what I can. “It doesn’t have to be. Let me.”
It’s all I need to say for him to catch my meaning, but he freezes. “Viola … no one has ever—”
“It’s all right,” I say.
I reach up to his hands where they’re now holding him up on either side of my head, and I lace my fingers through his.
He lets me pull the gloves from his hands, and when I slip them onto mine, I relish the warmth of him, even if it does make me a little lightheaded, the residue of poison painting my palms.
He shuts his eyes as I run my hands over him, his head hanging over me. When my hands linger too close to his waistband, a low groan escapes his lips. “You’re torturing me, darling. You know that.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I only know that I want him to have everything, to give to him everything he’s given me, to pull him as close to real intimacy, to a normal life, as he’s ever been.
He chuckles lightly. “I didn’t say I hated it.”
I bite my lip. “I’m just scared.”
His eyes open, his gaze locking with mine. “Viola Sinclair, lion of Vandenberghe, afraid? Ridiculous.”
With one hand, he undoes the fastening to his pants. “Relax. I’ll teach you.”
And then he’s showing me how to touch him, his hand over mine.
It’s strange and clumsy and wonderful. I’m nervous the whole way through, but I keep my focus on his face.
His eyes are closed, his expression a mix of desperation and tranquility, and I try to memorize his face like this, brutally elegant and mine.
Then everything turns feverish, reckless, burning.
Sweat breaks on his forehead, and his eyes burst open. “Eyes on me, darling,” he says. “Always on me.”
I meet his gaze, boring into me as we move together. He isn’t touching my body, and yet, I feel like I’m being excavated, hollowed out, taken by that ravenous look in his eyes alone.
He breaks, shuddering, and drops his weight on me. I feel his breath on my bare shoulder as I wrap my arms around him.
Cerise was right when she said that there were fine lines between hatred and wanting. But those words were all wrong.
Before, I didn’t hate Roze—I loathed him.
And now?
I don’t want Roze—I crave him.
Like I could gnaw my own arm off to get to him. Tear his leather gloves from his hands and swallow him whole, fingers first—his punishment and my satisfaction. A cruel, selfish, indulgent death.
After a few minutes he lifts himself up and looks in my eyes again. Something passes between us—something neither of us can quite put words to.
“I would die to touch you,” he says.
I pinch my lips together. My throat thickens, and I try to not let the emotion show on my face. I run my fingers through his hair, his gloves on my hands. “Stolen moments. It’ll be enough.”
It has to be enough to have him just for now. Just like this.
I close my eyes, and Roze shifts back to his side of the bed.
My thoughts fade to black, and while I sleep my dreams are full of fear and longing, desire for what I can’t have alloyed with the relief of finally being held and not feared.
But in the morning, Roze is gone.