She’s flushed, tear-streaked, sobeautifulI can hardly find air.
Her strong, yet delicate, fingers meet my cheeks, then I watch—in slow motion—as she leans in. Her eyelids flutter closed, releasing two crystal tears that splash against my chest an instant before her lips are on mine.
A firework goes off in my brain.
Insufficient time passes, and she’s done.
One chaste kiss.
Her first.
Bestowed uponme.
Mine.
Forever and evermine.
A tsunami of follow-up actions I could perform hits me, removing logic from my brain. All I can manage to utter is: “Are…we getting married?”
She drops her head, tangles her fingers against her soft stomach, nods.
So.
She didn’t lie to her mother.
She just didn’t yet tell me heryes.
She’s going to be my wife.
Clara Field is going to bemy wife.
Sweeping her face into my hands, I claim her lips as my own, torturing her mouth in every way I know how. My heart pounds in my ears, creating a melody with her tiny, grateful whimpers. I catch every noise she makes, scoring them onto sheet music and composing the soundtrack of my soul.
She’s sugar and cinnamon. Butter and sweet wine. Honey. Overflowing, endless streams of honey. Vanilla and almond fill my nose, my lungs, mycells.
Her fingers spread against my chest, rise over my shoulders, sink into my hair.
She tugs; I growl, latching my grip around her throat to stop her frantic motions.
Panting and breathless, she asks, “Bad?”
“So,sogood. Let me look at you.” I stroke her pulse with my thumb, mutter a swear.
Swollen, parted lips. Desperation. Heavy breaths.Trembling.
No one hurts her—ever again. This woman willneverfeel alone again. She will never struggle or face any fears aloneagain.
I add pressure around her throat; her eyes daze, lids fluttering.
“This okay?” I murmur.
“So good,” she whispers, and a thrill shoots down my spine.
I nip at her plump, pretty lips. “You’ll tell me to stop, won’t you? If I get too aggressive?”
Her mouth opens, but no words come.
“You don’t know if you’ll be able to?” I murmur, forcing my hold to lessen.
