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My bra is removed thoughtfully, his fingers brushing my skin here and there. Each time he touches me, I hold my breath, and he smiles mildly to himself, feeling my struggle to remain still while he undresses me. Dropping to one knee, he draws my knickers down, and I step out of them, before he takes each foot in turn and lifts it slightly from the ground so he can remove my shoes. When I’m totally bare before him, he feels around me and cups my arse, then reaches forward with his lips and rests them on the sensitive flesh to the side of my pubic bone. My hands come up fast and find his shoulders, my body bending at the hips on a lumpy swallow. I take one hand to his hair and comb through his ruffled waves, as my other feels his rough cheek.
He rises before me, smoothly and slowly, not once taking his eyes off mine. ‘Your love is mine.’ He swoops in and tackles my mouth, firm but slow, walking me back and caging me in against the door. I fall into his pace, match his passion, and wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders. ‘Mine to cherish,’ he mumbles past my lips. ‘Mine to protect, to worship, to admire.’
‘I’m not a piece of your treasure.’
‘Oh, baby, you really are.’ I swallow his words and hope they find my soul and brand themselves there. ‘I’m never freeing you from my maze, Eleanor Cole.’ He physically fights with himself to disconnect us, then reaches for his shirt buttons and starts undoing them one by one, purposely slowly. Inch by inch, his chest is slowly revealed, and my eyes flick to his, aware that’s he’s watching me admiring his perfection. ‘Yours,’ he says simply, rolling his shoulders and shrugging off his shirt. It gets tossed aside, and then his hands move to his trousers, unfastening them slowly, making a meal of his task, knowing I’m desperate to have our naked skin touching. The sound of his zip coming down is deafening in the silent room. The sexual tension is crippling.
All of the moisture in my mouth has evaporated. Becker smiles and pushes his trousers and boxers down his legs together, revealing his thick, sturdy thighs. I breathe out shakily as he kicks off his remaining clothes, and then he reaches forward and clamps my wrist in his hold, yanking me into his chest. Our bodies collide, soft curves on cut muscle, and my forehead meets his shoulder, my breath ricocheting back into my face. There’s a need rooting itself inside of me, one that demands I physically attach myself to him, because I don’t quite feel complete when we’re not connected. It’s beautiful and unhealthy at the same time. The more I learn about him, the stronger I feel.
‘Naked cuddles.’ His gravelly tone tickles my ear, and I flex my neck and roll my shoulder, trying to contain my hot shivers. Hooking one arm around his neck, I let him lift me from my feet and carry me to the bed where I’m laid down gently, and then he crawls up me on his knees and spreads himself all over me. And I realise. He really does just want a naked cuddle. To feel close. To hold me and reflect on what’s just happened. To make sure we’re okay.
And then I also realise . . .
I want that, too.
He hugs me tightly all night, like he’s scared I’ll disappear should he give me space to move. Neither of us breathe a word, though the silence is riddled with our thoughts. They are screaming, demanding to be shared. Yet we keep them to ourselves. I can tell when he’s trying to clear his racing mind because he increases his already tight hold, trying to squeeze away the crazy in his head.
Me? I just accept the various levels of constriction, trapped beneath him, while trying to process everything, as well as deliberate and worry about what might be whirling around in Becker’s head. I know what he said to his grandfather – all of the convincing words about letting go of his desire to find the sculpture. But what Becker said and what he is actually thinking are two entirely different things. I saw the excitement that he tried to conceal when his gramps told him what I’d unwittingly discovered. But just because the map can be completed, it doesn’t mean the sculpture can be found. I can’t lose Becker. Not to a woman, and most definitely not to a myth.
My hands resting on his back strokes and feels across the ink. I can almost feel the edges of the map swelling, like they’re raised and pulsing.
Like they’re coming to life.Chapter 30By morning, Becker is still like a second skin on me, and I’m guessing I’ve had only a few hours’ sleep. I drifted in and out of consciousness all night. Each time I found myself dosing off, Becker squeezed me that little bit harder, telling me that sleep wasn’t close for him and his mind was still racing.
