“You said it yourself,” she swallowed, breathless. “I’m hopeless.”
She squirmed free of his hold, turning to face him, and his arm fell away from her.
Only a sliver of space divided them. She leaned back into the table behind her, gripping the edge, peering up at him. He lifted a hand to her face and as his thumb gently smeared flour off her cheekbone, a startling thought flickered through her.
I want him.
Not the way she wanted the others. She didn’t want him touse—as a shield between her and the things she was running from. To feel normal. To soothe that lonely ache.
She wantedhim.His sharp edges and surprising tenderness and quiet strength. She wanted him spooning homemade soup into her mouth in his cozy, tidy house that smelled like bread. She wanted him discussing poetry in the dark with her grandfather. She wanted that fervent, desperate kiss in the palace hall.
She wanted Hawthorne Fell. The Wood King’s henchman. Not exactly boyfriend material, but still. He called to her the way the forest did. Called to something deep and forgotten. Something that longed to come alive again.
Emeline reached for the hand that had smeared flour off her cheek. He let her take it. Let her turn it palm up between them, tracing its calluses and flour-caked creases.
Such strong, capable hands.
“Emeline …”
He was all dark hair falling into river-rock eyes. Eyes thatwere, at present, captivated by the sight of her. Hot silence simmered between them. She stared at his mouth, so close to hers. Deliriously close. Letting go of his hand, she reached for his face, savoring the roughness of his jawline against her palms.
“Emeline.”Her name was a growl. Part warning, part yearning. But whatever he’d been about to say was lost in the softness of her mouth as she arched to kiss him.
Her fingers twined through his hair, pulling him closer.
“We can’t do this,” he murmured. But his hands slid behind her thighs as he lifted her onto the edge of the table. “What about Joel?”
She gently bit the curve of his jaw. “I broke things off with Joel.”
At those words, Hawthorne gave in to her. Securing her legs around his hips, he drew her against him. Desire burned through Emeline. Her blood hummed as he hooked his finger into the collar of her button-up shirt, tugging gently downwards. The buttons opened, one after another, and Emeline sucked in a breath as cool air rushed against her skin. He pushed the shirt down her arms and kissed the smooth curve of her shoulder, his teeth grazing her bare skin.
A low hum escaped her throat.
His eyes glazed over. Suddenly, his mouth was hot against hers, his tongue urgent. She kissed him back, pulling him closer, tighter, and still: it wasn’t enough.
She wanted him to lay her down.
She wanted him to …
Her hands fumbled with his belt, trying to undo it. Realizing what was happening, what she wanted, Hawthorne stilled. His hands slid away from her. His fingers wrapped around her wrists.
“Emeline, darling.” His voice was ragged and rough. “We can’t.”
A bubble of frustration expanded inside her and she nipped the soft place between his shoulder and throat, showing her displeasure. “Whynot?”
He didn’t answer. Only unhooked her legs from around him and stepped back, looking her over, assessing the damage he’d done. He immediately stepped forward again, his fingers shaking ever so slightly as they buttoned her shirt.
His face was flushed, his hair mussed. He looked … undone.
It made her want to kiss him again.
Sensing this, Hawthorne abandoned the buttons and backed away. Emeline pushed herself down from the table. “Tell me why.”
He ran both hands through his hair. “If circumstances were different …” He glanced away from her—but not before she saw the desire raging in his eyes. “I would happily take what you’re offering. More than happily.”
Emeline gripped the edge of the table, not trusting herself to let go. What did that mean, if circumstances were different? If she weren’t a prisoner here? If she weren’t secretly planning to leave all of this behind and escape?
Maybe that’s it.
