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He feathers a kiss across my crown and then tangles our hands together before leading me out of the kitchen and back into the living room. I glance over at the picture of him and his sister again and smile. They look so much alike. She's tall and willowy, with the prettiest eyes and brightest smile.
More photos of his family hang in orderly rows all the way down the hallway. He's a replica of his father, only somehow more handsome than the giant standing next to his mom in front of a mansion the size of a small city. It's obvious that his family is close. They're always smiling and laughing.
There are at least a dozen photos of Jared at signings or speaking events. The dictatorial professor is nowhere to be found in those photos. The charming prince is everywhere, though, smiling with fans or posing with family. Until we near the end of the hall. The pictures of him with his books just abruptly stop. In later pictures, he seems more reserved and distant, like there's something missing.
It makes my heart ache for him.
It's obvious that he's not the autocratic despot everyone thinks he is. He just lost his way, I think. I'm not sure exactly why he stopped writing, but I know it had to have hurt him. Even Kennedy gets cranky when the words won't flow. How much harder must it have been for him, someone surrounded by reminders of his success and that of his family?
It doesn't excuse his dictatorial insistence on perfection, of course. But it does explain it.
He's a man who feels deeply, grieves deeply. And he's been in mourning for a long time, all while trying to teach his students to avoid that same sort of pain. It must have been hard to encourage the passion of others even while mourning the loss of his own.
"This is my favorite room in the house," he murmurs, drawing to a stop in front of the last door on the left. "You ready, princess?"
"Yes."
He swings the door open.
"Jared," I gasp, staring around in stunned disbelief.
Most people who say they want a library in their home mean they want wall-to-wall bookshelves and somewhere comfortable to read. Jared has a literal library. It extends upward into the second and third floors of the house, staircases twisting like ivy around massive wooden and glass bookcases. They're filled with tomes in leather and paper bindings. Some are in temperature-controlled display cases, so fragile they look as if a single touch might send the papers crumbling to dust.
I step into the room and spin in a circle, overwhelmed by how beautiful it is. Everything is dark wood so finely wrought it seems as if the bookcases and furnishings sprouted up from the wooden floor. It's absolutely breathtaking.
"It's so beautiful," I whisper, melting into Jared when he steps up behind me to wrap his arms around me. I lean against his chest, turning my head to graze my cheek across his jaw. "I can't believe you have an entire library hidden in here."
"When I stopped writing, I stopped spending so much time in here," he admits, his voice soft. "But a year or so ago, I dragged myself out of my self-imposed exile and made myself face it. I found peace here."
"Why did you stop writing?" I ask, turning to burrow into his arms.
"Bitterness stole my inspiration. I trusted the wrong person and they took everything, every word I'd ever written was wrested out of my control." His sigh ruffles pieces of my hair. "I spent two years in court, fighting to regain what rightfully belonged to me."
"That's awful. I'm so sorry."
"By the time it was done, the words had dried up. So had the passion," he says. "Finding it again has been an exercise in futility." He tips his head down to look at me, his bottomless eyes searing me. "Until you, Caroline. You make me feel…hopeful and excited about the future again. It's been a long time since I felt that way, princess."
"I feel the same way," I whisper, running my hands up his chest and then around his neck to pull his head down toward mine. "You make me feel like I'm allowed to be me and that's okay. I've never felt as connected to someone as I do to you."
"That's because you're mine, sweet baby." His soft breath hits my lips, sending desire spiraling through me. "Since the minute I met you, you've consumed me, obsessed me. Had you refused to give me a chance today, I would have gone mad in want of you."
"Me too," I breathe, lifting up on my tiptoes to brush my lips against his.
He catches me around the waist, pulling me up against his body so we're pressed together in one long, delicious line. The heat of him rolls over me, sending choppy waves of desire spiraling higher. His scent swirls around me, until I feel as if I'm breathing him in with each pull of air into my lungs.
"You're going to fall in love with me, princess," he growls, nipping at my bottom lip. "I'm going to obsess you as thoroughly as you've obsessed me. Until you can't imagine not being in my arms."
"Jared?" I whisper, grazing my lips across the smooth plan of his cheek to his ear. I wrap my tongue around the lobe, making him growl my name in a way that has my nipples turning to hard little buds and arousal dampening my panties. "I'm already falling for you."
His entire body shudders, his hands clamping down on my hips. A feral sound leaves his lips, somehow more primal, more visceral than a growl. It's…obsession, spilling forth to stoke my own.
He takes my lips in a bruising kiss, staking his claim on me with so much passion, so much unfettered need, that my legs buckle.
"I need to make love to you, sweet baby," he whispers, swinging me up into his arms as if I'm something precious and priceless. His mouth meets mine again and again, as if he's unable to stop himself from drinking from my lips. I don't want him to stop. Nothing feels as good as being in his arms, with his mouth on mine.
"Please," I plead, as desperate to take that step as he is. To be claimed by this man, possessed by him…I think I might actually die if he doesn't make me his in that way soon. I ache for it so badly my entire body shakes in his arms, trembling with the force of my desire.
It's overwhelmingly powerful and pure.
He groans my name as if my plea makes him ache as badly as I do. We stumble forward, deeper into the library. I think he's going to lay me out on one of the sofas, but he doesn't. He moves for the stairs, trying to climb them and kiss me at the same time. We bump into the railing and then the wall. He stumbles. His grip on me never loosens or falters. I never feel anything less than safe.
Somehow, we finally make it to the top. The library passes in blurs of book bindings and dark wood before we pass through a doorway and then into another room. His bedroom, I think. Like the library, it's all dark wood and masculine colors, elegant and austere at once. His bed is massive.
I fall in love with it as soon as he lays me out in the middle of it and takes my lips in another drugging kiss. For long moments, we do nothing more than kiss. I get lost in him and the glide of his tongue against mine. In the way his breath rasps in his throat and his hands open and close on my hips as if he's incapable of stilling their movement.
