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“Not finished.” He brushed his mouth back down. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Especially that.” Pressed in a little more, tasting the seam of my lips with the tip of his tongue. “As I said, so many things. But none of them scary.”
He rose back up. His gaze was mixed with reflections of mine. The chestnut flecks were a stunning contrast to his ocean blue. I went liquid again, just gazing into those gorgeous depths. For the first time, I wished my hands were free, so I could reach up and touch him. I needed to know he was real.
Damn. Would he ever not do this to me? Would I ever be certain I wasn’t having a super long, incredible, dream? Maybe on the flight home—in which case, I’d just beg to fall back asleep.
“Shiraz,”—he needed to hear this as the guy still with stars in his eyes, not the master with his cock on my thigh—“you’ve known me for barely two days—”
“And attempting to know you better.”
“A for that effort,” I countered. “So turn down the violins and hear me on this.”
I dealt with the mixture of ache and acceptance as he quietly nodded, then released my wrists. For the moment, Master Cimarron was slipped to the back shelf. I already missed him.
Another long breath—then I just gave it to him without sugar coating. “I can be…intense.” Nervous laugh. “Yeah, I know that’s a real mind-bender, but—”
“Intense.”
His perplexed scowl stopped me as much as his borderline question. “Yes,” I said slowly, sensing he needed to hear the emphasis. “Look, I know you get it in the professional sense, but on the personal front, it’s not such a great character trait.”
His frown deepened. “Why is it a matter of character at all?”
“Huh?” Good thing I’d decided to leave my hands where they were. I was able to tug my hair as a calculated distraction. Yeah, calculated. Yeah, because I needed it. It was no small feat to keep thinking logically with this man near, especially skin-to-skin—but also because we’d dropped the shields of sarcasm. The thrum he’d first brought to my blood was now a full-blown throb, not entirely due to our physical chemistry. That part could be easily appeased. But emotional dissection? Gah.
Shiraz shrugged. Shrugged, as if we merely discussed the merits of pizza toppings. “Character is a matter of choice,” he stated. “It is the sum of the ways you have chosen to live, whether in respect and love and honor for yourself and others, or not. It is the path we all pick for ourselves, having hopefully been brought up to respect the importance of those choices by parents and other mentors, so we select the right path even when it is not the easiest way.”
Tug. Tug. A little harder now. “All right,” I answered, drawing the words out. “Following you so far. I think.”
“Your character, Lucina, is already clear to me. I saw a great deal of it before we even met, in the details of your proposal for the wedding. Nobody directed you to weave in so many of our country’s traditions to the theme of the ceremony and reception, but your ideas conveyed your careful thought and respect for our family’s deep ties to Arcadia. ’Twas not just the kingdom you honored, but the land it rests on. This jewel the sea has given us…you had never even been here when you conveyed your ideas, but you comprehended that importance already. You just…got it.”
“Shit.” Tug. Really hard. I gulped, struggling to stuff the sting behind my eyes back past the lump in my throat. “You actually read it.”
He stroked a thumb across my cheek. “Of course. Every word.”
“No. I mean, you read it. You didn’t throw it at some fancy-poo assistant, then just ask for the highlights to review.”
“Some ‘fancy-poo assistant’—like Crista?”
“Errrr…” I laughed. “Yeah.”
“The same woman you risked your own hide for, just about twelve hours ago?”
Colliding brows. “What’s your point?”
He leaned in again. “That your character is fucking beautiful to me.” A pause, as he pulled in a long breath. “And that what you need in bed—or on the couch, or on the floor, or anywhere else you would have it—has nothing to do with any ‘character flaw’.”
Major huff. “Fine. So it’s not a damn character flaw.”
He shoved up. Pushed all the way back until he knelt, muscled quads jutted at me, rippled torso rising over me. “It is not a flaw at all!” His nostrils flared. “By the Creator, Lucy. It is simply you. Perfectly you. And it enrages me that some small-minded imbezak—actually, it seems, a number of them—have led you to believe otherwise!”
For another long second, I simply stared. “I don’t understand.” Not a lie.
His fingers visibly dug into his thighs, not helping my effort to avoid staring at what was between them. “Let us talk about Ezra.”
“Now I really don’t understand.”
“Your superior?” he countered. “Ezra Lowe?”
“I know who he is, dammit. But why do you want to talk about—”
