Chapter 22 #2
His head lowered slightly in shame. “Because I am a fool.”
The answer was so unlike his usual careful evasions that Poppy’s throat tightened.
After a moment, she said, “I am a fool as well.”
Hector approached her slowly, and Poppy held her breath. “You are the furthest thing from a fool.”
“I…I—”
“Why would you call yourself a fool, Poppy?” he towered over her, and she gulped.
His nearness affected her so entirely; even her body felt pulled to him against her will.
“I am a fool for expecting to want things when I once agreed not to want them.” The darkness seemed to surround them and push them closer to each other.
Poppy wondered if she had said too much because Hector stopped in his tracks. She wanted to protest against that; she needed him close to her; she wanted to feel his fiery touch again.
She heard the soft placement of his cane against the edge of something nearby. The sound was small, but it echoed as he set it aside.
“Hector?”
“Poppy,” he said her name as if he were confessing a secret.
She could see him only as a shape moving toward her, slowly and with care under the dim light. She could only imagine what he saw, and without the cane, each step cost him attention. She understood that, and that made his gesture all the more romantic.
He stopped close enough that she could feel his breath on her.
“Will you dance with me?”
Her skin came to life when he asked her.
There was no music, guests, or candlelight. Only the dark room and the space between them. Poppy looked up at him and did not even try to keep her smile from forming.
“Yes, I would love to dance with you,” she said.
His hand found hers carefully and gracefully.
His palm was warm against hers, but she trembled when their hands joined.
Hector set his other hand with restrained precision on her back, and she placed hers on his shoulder.
They did not begin with steps. They simply stood, learning the shape and warmth of each other.
When Hector began a slow waltz, Poppy completely surrendered to him.
She felt the concentration in him, and the trust required by every small adjustment he made. She allowed him to lead her as she matched him carefully.
“I have an unusual request,” he said after a while.
Her pulse sped up again. “What is it?”
“You are free to refuse.”
Oh no.
“Hector, you are scaring me.” She halted their steps, and his arms tightened around her.
“It is nothing too serious. I did not mean to scare you.”
He looked troubled, and Poppy dropped her eyes in regret.
“I know, forgive me. What is this favor?”
His fingers flexed faintly against her hand. “May I… touch your face?”
Poppy felt as though she had stopped breathing.
He went still at once. “Forgive me. I should not have—”
“Yes,” she said. The word came out too quickly, and almost like a gasp. She swallowed.
“Yes, you may,” she said more calmly.
His hand left her back. For a moment it hovered near her shoulder, as if he could feel the outline of her without contact. Then his fingertips touched her hair.
The tenderness of it undid her.
He stroked her cheek gently, though the gesture felt more intimate than any caress she had known.
His fingers traced the arrangement of her dark blonde hair, paused where a loosened strand had escaped, then moved with reverent hesitation to her temple.
Poppy let out a soft sigh when his warm fingers neared her lips.
They stood motionless, afraid that any other movement would end it.
Hector inhaled her deeply; his thumb found the curve behind her ear.
When he exhaled, Poppy could almost taste him.
She trembled under his touch. Slowly, carefully, he studied every detail of her face with his fingertips.
The line of her brow, the bridge of her nose, and the softness beneath her eyes.
He only stopped at the corner of her mouth again, as though remembering something he had been told.
Poppy’s lips parted on a breath, and Hector froze as they both tried to control their breathing.
“May I?” he asked, rougher now.
Poppy could not bring herself to speak, so she simply nodded her head. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, then the side of her neck, barely touching, yet leaving warmth everywhere. She shivered before she could stop herself.
Hector’s hand withdrew an inch. “Why are you trembling?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the truth.
His hand returned to her cheek and cupped it.
“Jasper was right,” he said.
Poppy frowned. “About what?”
“About your beauty.”
Poppy blushed, and she felt her eyes burn with tears.
Why am I so overwhelmed?
“Hector,” she whispered his name, and his breath hitched.
He began to lower his hand, but she caught it and kept him there.
Then, before courage could leave her, she raised her other hand to his face.
He became utterly still as Poppy touched his hair first. His curls were dark and thick.
Her fingers moved to the firm line of his brow, then down to the eyebrows that gave his face such sternness when he was thinking.
She traced the bridge of his nose and listened to the rhythm of his breathing.
She had seen him often. Across tables. In doorways. At the edges of the rooms. But touching him was different. She could not pretend he was only duty beneath her fingertips. She found the shape of his cheek, the tension in his jaw, the place where he held back words until they hardened inside him.
Her thumb brushed his lower lip, and he closed his eyes.
“I can teach you too, Hector.”
She wanted him to understand.
“I can speak in the language you trust.”
Her hand remained on his face.
“Poppy,” he groaned, and the sound vibrated through her.
There was a warning in it. And a need so strong she felt it in the pit of her stomach.
It was not clear who moved first. Perhaps they both did, but Hector’s hand slid to the back of her neck while hers rested along his jaw.
Hector leaned forward until their lips brushed.
Poppy was uncertain, but when he closed the distance between them, she leaned into the kiss as if her life depended on it.
Then Hector exhaled against her, and the restraint changed.
He did not seize her or claim her. He kissed her with a gentle primal hunger, and with all the longing he had hidden inside.
Poppy responded equally. Her fingers tightened on his coat.
The dark ballroom fell away until there was only the warmth of his mouth and the astonishing fact that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
When they parted, they remained close enough to breathe in the same air.
Neither of them spoke.
Poppy rested her forehead lightly against his chin, and Hector’s hand stayed at her neck, and his thumb brushed against her skin, as though he feared any further motion would break whatever had come between them. Poppy no longer felt foolish for wanting.
And Hector, standing without his cane in the center of the ballroom, did not step away.