Chapter 10 #3
“No names. Deliver through the private entrance.”
He ends the call.
Turns.
And stops.
Completely.
His eyes widen.
Not dramatically.
Xavier doesn't do anything dramatically.
But enough.
His gaze starts at my face.
Moves to my hair.
Down the robe.
Bare legs.
Back up.
Then he frowns.
My confidence evaporates.
“What?”
He says nothing.
I pull the robe tighter.
“Xavier.”
His eyes return to mine.
“What?”
“You’re frowning.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That is not reassuring.”
His mouth moves slightly.
I cross my arms.
“What?”
He looks at me for another second.
Then shakes his head once.
“You’re all that.”
I blink.
“All what?”
“All of it.”
That does absolutely nothing useful to my heartbeat.
He walks toward me.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Sabine.”
“You can't say something like that and then start issuing commands.”
“I just did.”
He reaches for a small glass jar sitting on the side table.
I eye it suspiciously.
“What is that?”
“Balm.”
“For?”
“Your lip.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s split.”
“You noticed.”
His look says I've said something particularly stupid.
He unscrews the lid.
“Come here.”
I should resist on principle.
Instead I walk closer.
He dips his index finger into the clear balm.
My pulse becomes inconvenient.
“You have medical staff for this.”
“They left.”
“You could call them back.”
“I know how lip balm works.”
“It’s a highly specialized procedure.”
His eyes flick up.
“Keep talking and I’ll reconsider dessert.”
I close my mouth.
He steps closer.
Close enough that I smell him.
Close enough that the robe suddenly feels like very little clothing.
His free hand settles lightly beneath my chin.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re talking.”
“That doesn’t require my lip to—”
His fingertip touches the split.
I hiss.
His entire expression changes.
“Sorry.”
Soft.
Immediate.
It catches me harder than the sting.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
He touches me again.
More carefully this time.
His index finger glides over my lower lip, spreading the balm in a slow sweep.
My breathing changes.
I know he hears it.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
The room goes quiet.
Only rain.
Harder now.
Tapping against the glass.
Wind pushing it in sheets across the windows.
His finger reaches the corner of my mouth.
Stops.
My lips part without permission.
Xavier’s eyes darken.
I feel the shift in him.
Not Ghost.
Not Blackwell.
Man.
His thumb slides lightly beneath my chin.
He says something under his breath in Italian.
I don't catch all of it.
Then French.
“Putain.”
I almost smile.
“You're swearing in two languages now?”
“Trying not to do something stupid.”
“What?”
His eyes lift to mine.
“You know.”
I do.
Every inch between us seems suddenly unbearable.
I should step back.
He should.
Neither of us moves.
His fingertip is still at my mouth.
My hands hang uselessly at my sides.
The fire cracks behind him.
Rain pounds harder against the windows.
I whisper, “Maybe you should stop touching my lip.”
“That would be wise.”
“You're not stopping.”
“No.”
My heart stumbles.
His face lowers slightly.
Not enough to kiss me.
Enough to make the possibility real.
“Xavier.”
“What?”
“I don't know if this is a good idea.”
“It isn't.”
I should laugh.
Instead I catch his lapel.
Just to steady myself.
That's what I tell myself.
His gaze drops to my hand gripping his jacket.
Then back to my mouth.
Something in him gives.
He closes the last inch.
His lips touch mine.
Soft.
Careful.
Barely pressure at all.
A kiss over the balm.
Almost nothing.
And absolutely everything.
My eyes close.
He pulls back half an inch.
That's all.
Enough that I can feel his breath against my mouth.
Neither of us speaks.
Then I fist his lapel tighter and pull him back.
That ends careful.
His mouth finds mine again with a sound low in his throat that I feel everywhere.
One hand slides into my damp hair.
The other catches my waist through the robe.
I rise onto my toes.
The kiss deepens.
Slow for one second.
Then not slow at all.
His tongue brushes mine.
Heat explodes through me.
I make a sound against his mouth.
His hand tightens at my waist.
Teeth catch my lower lip, carefully avoiding the split, and then he kisses me harder.
The rain crashes against the windows.
The fire snaps.
My fingers leave his lapel and slide higher, curling around the back of his neck.
He's warm.
Solid.
Real.
Ghost has a mouth.
That thought nearly ruins me.
Every filthy late-night message.
Every unfinished sentence.
Every photograph that showed too little.
All of it suddenly has a taste.
A body.
Hands.
His palm moves up my back, gathering damp curls as he pulls me closer.
The robe separates slightly at my knees.
His body presses into mine.
Not enough.
Too much.
I can't decide.
His mouth leaves mine for one breath.
“Sabine.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver through me.
I look at him.
His forehead rests against mine.
His breathing is no steadier than mine.
That thrills me more than it should.
Xavier Blackwell, who controls everything, looks wrecked.
Because of me.
“You taste like honey,” he murmurs.
I smile against his mouth.
“Your fault.”
He kisses me again.
And this time there is no pretending it is accidental.
No balm.
No injured lip.
No excuse.
His mouth moves over mine while my hands tighten around him and every sensible thought I have dissolves beneath the sound of rain.
The fire behind us is nothing compared to the one starting between us.
Then Xavier breaks the kiss.
Abruptly.
I almost follow him.
His hands stay on me.
His eyes close.
“Why did you stop?”
His laugh is rough.
“Because you were kidnapped today.”
That sobers me slightly.
“You keep mentioning that.”
“Because you keep forgetting.”
“I haven't forgotten.”
His gaze moves over my face.
“I know.”
His thumb brushes my cheek.
Tender again.
That somehow feels more intimate than his tongue in my mouth.
“I want you,” he says quietly.
Every butterfly in my stomach catches fire.
“But not because you're scared. Not because you're exhausted. Not because I'm the first safe thing you've touched tonight.”
My throat tightens.
“Xavier—”
“No.”
He brushes another curl back.
“We have time.”
Do we?
The question must show on my face.
His expression softens.
“We have tonight.”
My chest aches.
Tonight.
Not promises.
Not forever.
Just this room.
This rain.
The fire.
His hands still around me.
Dinner on its way upstairs.
And the impossible man I fell for before I ever saw his face looking at me like he has no intention of looking away.
I slide my hands slowly down his chest.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Dinner.”
His mouth curves.
“Good.”
“But you're kissing me again afterward.”
His eyes darken.
“That sounds less like a request.”
“I learned from you.”
His hand closes around mine.
“Dangerous.”
I smile.
“So I've been told.”
He leads me toward the fire.
And this time when I sit beside him, there is no inch between our hands.
No hesitation.
Xavier laces his fingers through mine.
I curl closer under his coat and robe, still tasting honey and healing balm and him.
Outside, London disappears behind the rain.
Inside, Ghost is no longer a ghost.
And that might be the most dangerous thing that has happened to me yet.
The food arrives twenty minutes later.
Too much of it.
Naturally.
Xavier has apparently decided kidnapping requires carbohydrates.
There is soup, roasted chicken, potatoes, vegetables, bread still warm from somewhere downstairs, and the scones he already ordered because apparently one bakery delivery was not enough. There is also a chocolate tart that looks obscene.
I stare at the table.
“How many people are you expecting?”
“One.”
“This is food for eight.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I had a scone.”
“That was not dinner.”
“It had cream.”
He gives me a look.
I sit.
Xavier takes the chair beside mine rather than across from me.
Close enough that our knees touch beneath the table.
Neither of us moves them.
That tiny contact becomes absurdly distracting.
I take a spoonful of soup.
He watches.
I swallow.
His eyes remain on me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
His gaze moves slowly over my face again.
Not hiding it this time.
“Probably going to keep doing that.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
Ridiculous.
Vesper has sent this man photographs wearing considerably less than a fluffy white robe.
Vesper once spent nearly an hour discussing exactly where Ghost’s hands might go if we ever stopped hiding behind screens.
Sabine apparently blushes when Xavier looks at her over soup.
I hate this development.
He notices that too.
His mouth curves.
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“You’re pink.”
“Hot tea.”
“You haven’t touched it in ten minutes.”
“Fire.”
“We’re six meters from it.”
“French complexion.”
“You’re tan.”
I point my spoon at him.
“Eat.”
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
The sound does something soft and strange inside my chest.
I have made Ghost laugh before. I’ve seen the words.
That actually made me laugh.
You’re ridiculous.
Stop.
But I have never heard it.
Low.
Warm.
Unexpected from a man who looks as though smiling requires board approval.
I stare.
Now he catches me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sabine.”
“I like your laugh.”
The amusement disappears from his face.
Not because he dislikes what I said.
Because it affects him.
I can see that now.
That may be the most dangerous new ability I’ve acquired.
Ghost could hide behind punctuation.
Xavier has eyes.
And I am starting to read them.
He reaches beneath the table and takes my hand.
No announcement.
No question.
Just his fingers threading slowly through mine.
My breath catches.
“Eat,” he says.
I look down at our joined hands.
“You’re holding my spoon hand.”
“Use the other.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“I’ve waited years. Adapt.”
My heart trips.
I use the other hand.
For several minutes, we eat like that.
His thumb moves across my knuckles absently.
Once.
Again.
Every tiny stroke creates a trail of awareness up my arm.
Physical connection shouldn't feel this enormous.
People hold hands every day.
Teenagers do it while walking through shopping centers.
But Ghost has never touched me.
Not once.
So Xavier’s fingers around mine feel more intimate than they should.