“I can’t help it. You bring out my best jokes.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing at all. Simply met his gaze and smiled. And for once, it felt natural. Simple. As she watched, his breath slowed and his expression softened. His eyes—those deep blue wells—held so much more depth than she’d previously thought. Desire, held in check. But desire for her. Suddenly, she was all too aware of their compromising position—their legs tangled together, her hands pressed to his chest, and his against her stomach. Their faces mere inches apart.
“Olive,” he whispered, his voice a silky caress. “Why are you really here?”
She inhaled his confidence, his solidness, and exhaled the words longing to be free.
“I was thinking about you. I wanted to see you.”
The smile he gave her was lopsided. Genuine. Beautiful. “I’m glad, because I can’t stop thinking about you, either.”
“Really?”
“You occupy my thoughts during the day, and when I close my eyes at night, you’re waiting for me in my dreams. It’s madness.”
She nodded, dazed. It was madness.
“I can’t stop wondering where you are. What you’re doing. Whether you’re tired or hungry. If you’re laughing.” His gaze fell to her lips, and his voice deepened. “And God help me, I can’t stop thinking about your sweet lips. How they’ll taste beneath mine when I finally claim them.” Desire pooled between her legs at the thought, and her back arched toward him unconsciously. “Would you like that, Olive?”
“Yes.” It was more whimper than word, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care about anything other than the spell Emil wove around her.
“I’ve thought of this moment a dozen times a day for the last few weeks,” he said. “I’ve kissed you a hundred ways. But first, I need to know. Have you ever been kissed?” Her cheeks heating, she shook her head. “What about in your dreams? Your imagination?”
“All the time.”
Her whisper wrenched a growl from his lips, and his hand splayed across her stomach. “Tell me. How does your first kiss make you feel?”
“It’s soft. Patient.” She lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. “It makes me hear music.”
“You deserve music, Olive,” he said, and she tensed, half-fearing her request was too high. Too demanding. Too strange. But all he did was lean so close that his next words could have been her own. “I’ll do my best to make that happen.”
His lips brushed against hers, soft and warm and damp. She longed to raise her hands, to wind one through his dark locks, to have his hand cup her jaw. But somehow, the restraints made every touch more vivid. She fell into the kiss. Embraced the gentle cadence of their lips meeting, parting, and returning. She gasped. He sighed. And their breath intertwined in a new melody. When he pulled back, she was trembling.
“Did you hear music?”
She nodded. And then, as if she were someone else entirely, she rocked forward, her nose bumping against his, and demanded in a voice raw with need, “More.”
“I’ll give you anything you want,” he said gruffly. His hands moved across her belly, her hips, holding her tightly to him. “But a second kiss isn’t gentle. Not ours, anyway.”
“Not ours,” she agreed, her knee pushing restlessly between his.
“Tell me what it is.”
“It gives everything. And it takes everything. It is passion incarnate.”
“God, you undo me.”
His mouth descended on hers, and coherent thoughts vanished. This was not merely a kiss. It was a declaration. A claiming. He nipped at her bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue. He teased her lips apart, then thrust his tongue inside her mouth to stroke hers. He took what he wanted, and she gave everything she had. Then it was her turn.
She wrapped her fingers in the front of his sweater, demanding he close the small gap between them. She rocked against the iron bulge pressing into her thigh. He wanted her. He wanted her. She let herself fall even deeper into the kiss, craving more, always more, more.
At last, he tore his mouth away and pressed his forehead to hers, muttering something in Swedish. His breath was as harsh and ragged as hers. She was still dizzy with his taste when she felt the shift.
It was subtle. Not unkind. But it was there, in the gentle way he pried her fingers from his sweater. How he eased his legs from between hers and put as much space between them as their position would allow.
“Passion incarnate, indeed,” he finally said, leaning back to look at her. The words were correct, but the tone was wrong—the rough edges of want had gone brittle. Then she saw his smile.
A chill swept over her.
