Chapter 21 #2
She looked at him then, at the straight line of his nose and the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the masculine curve of his lips. He was sitting forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, his beautiful copper eyes locked on her face.
“Told you that I feel something…large. Something I have never felt before. Something I can neither name nor define. I only know that in that instant when I believed I would die, the thought of you not knowing was—” She shook her head and made a small laugh that was exceptionally painful and came out sounding like the caw of a crow.
“The thought of you never knowing was intolerable.”
He rose from the chair and closed the small space between them, crouching down before her, bringing his face level with hers. This close, she could see every dark, curled lash.
“I have ridden the cliff path my entire life and never once have I paid attention to the wild thyme,” he said.
“Never once have I thought it beautiful until you arrived and I found I could not stop noticing things that remind me of you. And now I have a jar of purple flowers on my desk because I thought the purple would complement the green of your eyes.” He offered a tight smile.
“I need you to know that I have not a word for it either. But I feel it every moment of every day.”
She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his skin. When she opened her eyes and pulled back, she found him watching her, pupils dilated. He offered a dark smile.
And then his mouth slanted across hers, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips.
She opened to him as he kissed her, lush and shameless.
A claiming. The room spun away and there was only Dashiell, the scent of his skin, the thrust of his tongue, the graze of his teeth as he caught her lower lip.
Wicked heat poured through her and a dark thrill arrowed low in her belly. The sensation was foreign and wild.
She kissed him back, following his lead, mimicking the movement of his lips and tongue and was rewarded with a rough groan torn from low in his throat and the tightening of his hands on her arms as he pulled her closer.
Her hands slid to his chest, solid and muscled.
His clothing did not disguise the shape of him, the feel of him, his body so different than her own.
With a growl, he stood and swept her in his arms. The heat of his body passed through the layers of clothing between them.
She buried her face in his neck, inhaling.
He crossed to the door of the bedroom and pushed it fully open with his foot.
Then, holding her tight to his chest, he lowered them both to the bed, his body rolling full atop her.
He was all hard slabs of muscle and heat and strength, and there, pressing against her, she felt the hard length of his arousal.
She ached to touch him, and so she did, her palms tracing the shape of his shoulders, sliding along the back of his neck to tangle in his hair. Smooth. Silky. Softer than she had expected.
His lips on hers set her aflame, sent a hot, dark throb spreading through her veins. Her breath came shallow and fast, bright arrows of heat shooting low in her belly. She wriggled beneath him, driven by a restless ache, not knowing what she wanted, only knowing she needed more.
Her breasts ached where they were pushed against him, the nipples puckered and hard, so sensitive.
He rose above her, balancing his weight on one hand while he pulled his shirt over his head with the other, leaving his torso bare. Her breath caught. He was beautiful, all corded muscle and smooth skin, a dusting of dark hair across his chest, narrowing to a line that ran down his taut belly.
His gaze flashed to hers, a question, as he reached for the dressing gown tie at her waist. Her teeth worried her lower lip, but she did not deny him though a flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks.
She closed her eyes as he stripped away the dressing gown, rolling her gently side to side to free her arms.
“Look at me, Minerva,” he ordered, his voice a low rasp.
She looked at him. At the strong line of his jaw and the masculine contour of his lips. At his eyes, copper bright, framed in dark lashes, watching her with an intensity that took her breath.
“I am a man many consider a monster. I am cold. Hard. At times brutal. I make no excuse for who I am.” He ran his thumb gently along the angle of her jaw. “Do you want such a man?”
Did she want such a man? The man who had brought her purple flowers. Who had listened to her play and heard her soul in the notes. The man who had shared bits of himself though it went against his nature and inclination to do so. The man who had saved her from near certain death.
She did not romanticize him. She knew what the villagers whispered. She knew the flaws he himself had admitted to her. She knew that it had taken will and control to keep himself from continuing to beat Teague until he was dead.
And still she wanted him. The wanting was a living, writhing thing inside her, drowning her. It was a madness in her blood and her mind, both frightening and alluring.
“I want you,” she said. “It is only…”
“Only?”
“I know there can be…consequences.”
“Ah.” He paused. “Do you know what a French letter is?”
“I… yes. Kitty told me.”
“It can prevent…consequences.”
She nodded. “Then by all means, proceed.”