The agony in his voice made her ache. She bit his collarbone and clutched his shoulders, rocking against him. Slowly at first. Then faster. Insistent.
Tension hummed through his body. His fingers dug into her hips.
She was breathless with desire. Urgently needing him.
Hawthorne moaned low in his throat. One hand wrapped around her thigh, the other cupped her head, bringing her mouth down to his. He kissed her hungrily, seizing what she offered him as their yearning built towards its crescendo and he quietly called out her name.
When it ended, Emeline fell against him, panting softly as she rested her head on his wet shoulder. Lying curled against his chest, she listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart.
Her whole body hummed with pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so perfectly happy.
As he leaned his cheek against the crown of her head, Hawthorne’s arms circled her, keeping her close as his palms rested on her curves beneath the water.
“Was that okay?” she whispered, tracing his lean edges with her fingertip. So new to her, and yet familiar. Like a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing.
In answer, he tipped her head back and kissed her mouth, the warmth of his lips parting hers. Before she could return it fully, he rose from the tub, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her to his bed.
Where they did it all over again.
THIRTY-FIVE
EMELINE WOKE TO THEsplutter and crack of a wood fire.
Her nose was cold, but Hawthorne’s bed was warm, and she snuggled down deeper. The smell of him on the sheets brought back memories of last night. Of his capable hands and his deep warmth and his soft kisses.
When she reached for him, though, her fingers brushed cold, empty sheets.
Emeline opened her eyes.
On the pillow next to hers, he’d left three anemones tied with twine. The delicate white petals trembled as she touched them. They reminded her of the anemone left beneath her stool that night at La Rêverie. Had that really been Hawthorne standing at the bar, drinking from her Hydro Flask? If so, what had he been doing there?
Her mind wandered further back, to the mysterious Taylor sent from an anonymous fan. Wildflowers had been woven through the strings of the guitar. Buttercups and daisies and … anemones.
Was that Hawthorne too?
Emeline frowned. It didn’t make sense. Both instances were from before they’d ever met.
She decided to ask him about it.
Emeline stretched, preparing to rise. Beyond the bed was a faded blue armchair, her clothes neatly folded upon it.
She had a hazy memory of him sitting in that chair, with a notebook on his knee, watching her sleep.
Sketching me,she thought.Or did I dream that?
Emeline sat up, and there on the bedside table was the leather-bound notebook. A smudged gray pencil lay atop it.
Sitting up, Emeline gathered the blankets to her chest, then reached for the book. Carefully, she opened to the first page. There, in soft gray shades, was Lament. Hawthorne’s lines had somehow captured the velvety softness of her nose and that impatient, fiery gleam in her eye.
Turning the page, Emeline found a sketched scene of Sable and Rooke, leaning towards each other from across Hawthorne’s fireplace. He’d drawn them deep in discussion: the lines of Rooke’s raised hands were sharp and rough, as if he was waving them to emphasize his point; Sable’s chin was propped calmly on her hands, as if she was plotting her rebuttal. The next sketch was of Grace, smiling and happy, her chin on her fist with The Acorn bustling behind her.
Emeline turned more pages and found more scenes: the tall grove where the Wood King sat upon his throne; the view from the crystal dome over the sweeping forest; a dark raven wing with each and every feather drawn in precise detail.
Emeline turned page after page until she came to the last one.
The sketch was of a bare foot—herfoot—peeking out from beneath the covers at the bottom of his bed. He’d drawn each of her toes, the gentle curve of her arch, and the line of her ankle.
Even his pencil marks were startlingly tender.
