Book 4 - Page 82 (1/2)

I didn’t know what to call my feelings, but I knew they were expanding, and profound, and frightening—after all, losing Portia had felt like being unchained, but the idea of losing Ruby felt so hideous it turned something over inside me.

And what it took for her to express her feelings so starkly and then to stay here in the middle of my silence and wait for me to find words . . . I wanted to give her everything I had, wanted to let her know how absolutely mad I was for her.

I trailed my lips from her jaw to her neck, sucking, nibbling. Feel this, I thought. Let me show you the things I can’t say.

I pulled her coat down her arms, tossing it aside and lifting my fingers to the b.u.t.tons of her s.h.i.+rt, silently begging her to meet my eyes. She looked up with hesitation marking her features and then she read something in my face—pleading anguish, some needful hope—and she seemed to exhale a world of tension, reaching to pull my face to hers.

“Are you suggesting we postpone dinner?” she asked against my lips.

I nodded, wrapping my arms around her waist and walking us over to one of the wide, armless chairs in the living room.

My hands were impatient: hastily unzipping her skirt, pus.h.i.+ng her underwear down her hips, hungrily sliding my palms over every inch of her naked skin. Ruby’s curves were smooth, pale, utterly flawless, and I bent, sucking at her shoulder, grasping her breast in my palm.

Far more carefully, she unb.u.t.toned my s.h.i.+rt, eyes gauging my reaction. “We don’t have to—” she started, but I cut her off with a kiss.

Let go.

She slid my s.h.i.+rt from my shoulders, unfastened my belt, and slowly worked my trousers down my hips until I could kick them away.

Taking me in her hand, she began to lower herself to her knees before me.

I shook my head, in one motion pulling her up and bending to slide my lips over hers, parting them, tasting her. Her tongue was sweet and small in my mouth, pus.h.i.+ng against mine with a sudden, aware desperation. Her slim, firm hands pressed against my chest, backing me into the chair, and she followed, climbing over and digging her hands into my hair as she kissed me: messy, biting, moans and tiny pleas escaping as my hands slid down her sides, between her legs, feeling her softest, most vulnerable skin.

“Do you want to move?” she asked, lips wet, eyes heavy.

Did she mean move . . . into her?

“I . . . yes?” I arched beneath her, seeking contact.

She leaned in to kiss me again before whispering, “I mean, do you want to move to your bed?”

I closed my eyes, struggling against the way my brain wanted to pick up that question and consider it too carefully. Getting up and walking to my bedroom would ricochet us out of this place of l.u.s.t and relief that felt so b.l.o.o.d.y good. I didn’t want to move an inch. I would think too much about what this meant, what I felt, that I’d never had s.e.x in that bed, and that I’d only put a name to Ruby’s face just under four weeks ago.