Page 54 of To Seduce a Stranger

“You are human.”

“Perhaps they were right about me,” she continued as if she had not heard him—or as if she meant to deny what he said. “Perhaps I am more French than English. Because in the end . . .”

“What do you want, Charlotte?” The question was a whisper now, but he would keep asking until she answered.

“I don’t have words to tell you,” she insisted with a small shake of her head.

“En anglais? Alors, parle français.”

“No. I do not believe speaking French would help me now—if it ever has.” Once more, her gaze dipped to the floor. “I want . . . you.”

That single word fell on him like an answer to prayer. A prayer he had not even been aware of making. A selfish, sinful sort of prayer.

But, oh, he wanted her too.

Which was the reason he forced himself to ask her, “Why?”

“Because I have always been afraid. And you make me feel safe.”

It was hardly a declaration of love. Not that he had expected one. God knew he had no business wanting one. This could not be about the future, about forever. But for one night, he would not let his fears keep him from giving her everything they both desired. Only her own fear stood in their way now.

“Of what have you been so frightened?” he asked.

“Of myself.”

Rising to his knees before her, he rested his hands on the arms of the chair, one on either side of her body. And waited until she faced him once more.

“The words you seek are simple enough,” he said when she had raised her eyes to his. “Yes or no. In French or in English. It does not matter. I will ask, and you need say just one word in reply.”

“Yes or no . . .” she echoed on a whisper. “And you will heed that one word?”

“Always.” It would be torture. The sweetest torture imaginable.

“But what if—what if I am not sure?”

“Then say no. You can change your mind later. You are always free to choose . . .”

Her dark eyes widened, framed by spiky black lashes and a few damp tendrils of hair that had escaped their pins. Freedom was a revelation.

He had seen enough men and women in chains, both real and imagined, to know the value of freedom. But he did not know if he had ever met another soul who had built those chains, link by link, to imprison her true self.

For all his failures, he at last had in his hands the power to set someone free.

The distance between the arm of the chair and her face, the distance his trembling hand had to travel, stretched for miles. At last, however, he reached her. He dragged the tip of one finger over her lips.

“May I kiss you here?”

He felt her warm breath before he heard her answer. “Yes.”

Softly, slowly, he brushed his mouth over hers. Gentle. Sweet. Anticipation was an almost painful pleasure, building with each sensation, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, then began to respond, moving beneath his, giving back—lightly, tentatively—what they received.

Next, he brushed aside a loose lock of hair with his fingertips and traced the delicate shell of her ear. “May I kiss you here?”

The surprise in her eyes made his heart flip in his chest. What had he done, that she should entrust him with the honor of introducing her to these delights? To say nothing of the delights yet to come.

“Yes.”

He allowed himself to do little more than brush her ear with his lips, to breathe in her scent, to breathe out her name. “Charlotte.” Trailing his fingers down the soft curve of her neck, he paused at the ridge of her collarbone. “Here?”