Page 26 of Claimed At First Sight

I stare down at the green leaves at our feet, trying to ignore how close he is.

“Mia?” he prompts when the silence stretches.

Right. Dandelions.

“They start out bright yellow,” I say. “They’re cheerful, and they grow wherever they damn well please, and nobody has to fuss over them.”

He’s listening way too intently.

“And then they turn into those fluffy seed heads,” I continue. “One gust of wind and they’re gone.”

I look at him. “Nobody gets to decide where they grow next.”

Something changes in his expression.

I smile sweetly. “You can’t control a dandelion, Maximo.”

Maximo’s gaze remains fixed on me. He leans in closer.

“The thing about dandelions,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my mouth, “is that if you want to keep them, you have to catch them before the wind does.”

My heart stumbles, then takes off again. I try to get it back under control, but apparently Maximo Marco has hijacked it.

Needing to break the sudden tension, I reach for the rose I’d been smelling earlier.

“Ouch.”

I jerk my hand back. A thorn has pierced my fingertip, and it stings instantly. Before I can bring my finger to my mouth, Maximo catches my wrist.

My breath stalls.

He lifts my hand between us, his grip firm, and then his mouth closes over the tip of my finger.

Everything inside me seems to stop.

His tongue sweeps slowly over the tiny bead of blood. My pulse hammers in my veins as I stare at his mouth, unable to look anywhere else.

When I finally lift my gaze, Maximo is already watching me.

His eyes have gone dark. Then he sucks my fingertip deeper into his mouth, circling the tiny puncture gently.

God help me.

A soft moan slips from my lips before I can stop it. Heat rushes low through my body, my core clenching on empty space.

He releases my finger from his mouth and inspects the spot with absurd care, his thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist.

I should pull my hand away, but I can’t seem to move at all.

His face is only inches from mine.

“I intend to be faster than the wind,” he says, his voice rough.

“What?” I whisper.

I have no idea what he’s talking about. All I can see is his mouth.

“Mialina.”