Chapter 14 #2
But she needed help. That was all. Just a little help from her brother-like employer.
Realizing he’d not drawn breath for who-knows-how-long, Nigel managed a painful inhale.
Then he stepped forward. One step. Another.
Very slowly. Each footfall felt momentous, as though he traveled the journey of a lifetime.
Somehow he made his way across the little room to where she stood with her head turned and her eyes lowered.
Breathing out slowly, Nigel allowed his gaze to run down her back, noting the soft, pale hairs and a smattering of freckles across the satiny smoothness of her flesh.
She was not wearing a brassiere. This knowledge hit him like a blow.
The back of the gown was set too low to accommodate a brassiere strap, and the structure of the bodice offered all the support her small bosom required.
But this meant there was absolutely nothing to impede his view.
His mouth had gone dry. His throat closed tight.
Other parts of his anatomy were tight as well, but he fought valiantly not to think about that, not to notice, not to let the awareness lead him down forbidden paths of thought or feeling.
Luna had asked for help. She trusted him.
Trusted him enough to call him up here to perform this simple service. He would be trustworthy.
Or . . .
Now here was a thought.
Or what if, instead of taking hold of that stuck zipper . . .
What if he pressed his hand against that exposed place between her shoulder blades?
Felt her shiver beneath his palm? What if he ran the tips of his fingers down her spine, pulling the zipper lower as he went?
Then he might slip his hand underneath her bodice, wrapping around the front of her torso, across her bare stomach.
A gentle, caressing exploration, responsive to her every tremble or sigh.
What would she do?
Would she scream?
Would she wrench away, gazing up at him with hurt and betrayal?
Or would she melt into his touch? Lean those lovely curls of hers back against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips parted as they uttered more of the little mewling sounds he’d heard from her last night?
Allowing him to show her what he could do, how he could make her come alive with a brush of fingertips, a play of palms, as their hearts learned to beat in joyous syncopation.
“Can you see it?” Luna asked, her voice breaking through his reverie. “Is my hair in the way?”
Nigel blinked hard. And she was still there, standing before him.
Judging by the angle of her elbow, she held one hand pressed to her bosom, keeping the bodice in place.
With her other hand, she pulled her curls to one side.
They were much too short to impede his view, but when she drew them back, she exposed the divine slope from her earlobe down her white neck to her bared shoulder. Galaxies exploded in Nigel’s brain.
He could not help himself. He stepped closer still, his head bowing slightly.
Not touching—no! He would never touch, not without permission.
Fantasies aside, he hadn’t even the courage to reach out and take hold of that zipper.
But he drew near and nearer, breathing in the scent of her.
His breath expelled against her flesh, and he watched little goose prickles raise in response.
Luna sucked in a gasp. Her head turned forward again, her shoulders tensed.
With fear? With anticipation? Without seeing her face, how could he know?
Nigel leaned in closer. His mouth hovered mere inches from that warm, pale skin, and his view expanded over the horizon of her shoulder, taking in the exquisite sight of collarbone, sternum.
The swell of her bosom, only partially covered by her splayed fingers.
Her chest rose and fell rather quickly, and Nigel found himself acutely aware of the ticking pulse point under her jaw.
Time lost all meaning. Who could say how long he stood there, poised on the brink? Why could he not find the words to speak? Why could he not simply ask her? The question was simple enough.
May I kiss you?
Here . . . and here . . .
But his throbbing heart stuck in his throat, choking out all words.
Luna drew another little breath. He was close enough now that he could see the slight quiver of her lower lip.
Then she turned to him suddenly, her eyes catching his, and he found himself staring into dark depths more dangerous than the endless torment of the Dire.
He watched her gaze lower to his mouth, and she leaned toward him. Just a little. Just enough.
His hand lifted. Slowly, deftly, he glided his index and middle fingers under her chin. Just the barest scrape of fingertips against flesh, but the heat that touch ignited was nearly enough to incinerate him.
Nigel inclined his head. His eyelids lowered, his lips parted, and then . . .
He stopped.
Because he knew how this would go. Knew how it must go. There was a sort of comfort in the inevitability of it all. He’d lived this moment what felt like a hundred times by now. He didn’t need any great scrying ability to predict what happened next.
Three, he thought to himself in the privacy of his head, even as Luna’s brow puckered and her gaze sought his in mute confusion. Two. One.
Down below, the shop bells rang out. Because he’d neglected to lock the door. Perhaps the gods themselves had stopped him, in preparation for this very turn of events. Because the gods themselves absolutely did not want him laying hands on this woman.
A fall of heavy footsteps echoed on tile, followed by a voice calling out in deep, manly tones: “Luna? Grimm?”
“Oh!” Luna gasped and sprang away from Nigel in a rustle of pink and yellow skirts. “Why is he here already?”
Then she reached behind herself and—very deftly, very simply, without the least hitch or difficulty—zipped the zipper the rest of the way up.
Twirling on heel, without a spare glance for Nigel, Luna darted for the bed, snatched up the little pink-petal handbag lying there, and sprang for the door. “I’m here, Ward!” she called down the stairwell. “I’m ready!”
And Nigel was left standing in the middle of his bedroom floor. Feeling as though his heart had just been pried from his chest with a pair of red-hot pinchers.