Need—raw, ravenous need—rasped within his breath. He hungered, she held the fruit. Heady, this power. She’d never have guessed such power existed.
The power to bring this feral to his knees. The power to change everything.
“We are here for the same reason,” he said. “Aren’t we?”
“No.” She managed to shake her head. “We are not.”
“Is it me you object to? Or the arrangement?”
Not him, her heart answered. She frowned. Well,yes, him!
She objected to him…Redver. She objected to Harbury. She adamantly objected to all of their kind…at least in theory.
But when a man stood in front of you with his shirt agape, radiating heat and want and looking at you as if you were spring’s first strawberry, hatred, she discovered, could meld with something equally as strong and just as potentially explosive.
Attraction, full-bodied. And something more…the whisper of promise, of potential.
She raised her eyes to his.
His faint smile returned. “I propose a test. A kiss.”
“A kiss,” she echoed.
A kiss was a bad idea. A terrible one.
But her heart was pitter-pattering away as if she had been sprinting. And all that power beckoned. She was feeling rather reckless. And dizzy.
Perhaps that was why she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and demanded, “One kiss. And first, you cover your eyes.”
He didn’t immediately answer. Then, with a saucy grin, he released her hand.
“Didn’t think I’d comply, did you?” He plucked his discarded cravat from his arm. “You’ll find I can be very accommodating.” He tied the strip of fabric tight behind his head. “Will this do?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were completely covered, leaving visible only the tip of his nose and his lips. Those lips. Those lips that left a tiny, dry patch at the back of her throat.
With her free hand, she raised her veil.
“Step closer,” he urged, even smoother and warmer.
She did, tightening her hold on his shirt.
Another bad idea.
Even though their bodies weren’t quite touching, his masculine heat was both a snare and a promise. He trailed his palms up her arms before gently taking her face into his hands. She felt wanted. Needed.
“I can’t see you,” he reassured.
It didn’t matter. What he couldn’t see, he made up for with touch. And his hands were as eloquent and precise as a Shakespearian sonnet.
“Thick.” He lost his fingers in her hair. “And wavy, I think, were I to remove the pins. How long? Here?” He placed his hand between her shoulder blades.
“Longer,” she rasped.
He moved his palm to her waist. “Here?”
“There.” The word was a sigh.
