Heat ricocheted through me as I stopped in front of him, his eyes sweeping over me and leaving me feeling utterly exposed.
‘I didn’t say I’d lick it up.’
‘No.’ He stepped toward me, rounding until I was between him and the worktop. ‘But that’s what you meant. And now you’re ashamed for letting me know about that fantasy of yours. What you're missing is how I knew exactly what you meant without you saying it. I think we are cut from the same cloth, Amanda.’
I should have left.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
Instead, I leaned back on the table, letting my dress hitch up just enough to show a flash of thigh.
When he moved forward, pressing momentarily against me, I readied myself for another soul-snatching kiss. Fuck, he could kiss for Britain. I’d had his damn mouth on my mind all day, and I was so ready for another taste, no matter how reckless. Instead, he reached past me, lifting a rose he’d cut earlier. It was deep crimson, long-stemmed and studded with thorns.
A sweet gesture, but not what I’d come for.
‘Sit on the worktop,’ he commanded. ‘And open your legs.’
What the heck? I hoped to god he didn’t think he’d be using me as a damned vase. I was kinky, but not thorns in the chuff kinky.
Before I could formulate my argument, Henry leaned in and brushed his lips against my throat.
‘Trust me.’
Two little words that challenged me. Could I trust him? This near stranger who enchanted donkeys and Australians with nought but a sunny smile. Who mistletoe trapped me?
My body obeyed before my brain did. He guided me backwards and lifted me until I sat on the table top, the rough wood digging into my backside through my dress.
‘You’re trembling.’ He ran a thumb over my lip.
‘I can’t help it.’ I hated how bloody breathy he made me.
‘Good.’
Henry tipped the rose and grazed the petals over my exposed thigh.
Cool silk against my sticky skin. I watched as the red contrasted with my thigh, dancing over my flesh and sending ripples of sensation through me.
‘This is where it begins, you focus on what I let you feel, and you let everything else fall away. There’s just you, me, and this rose.
He dragged the petal slowly upwards as my eyes fluttered closed. I couldn’t help but sigh as the petals neared the apex of my thighs, barely covered by the hem of my dress.
Then a thorn grazed the same path. Replacing the soft sensation with a much more acute one. Not breaking skin, but sharp enough to make me flinch.
‘And this heightens the sensations. It takes all that pleasure and tightens it, rolling it into something far deeper.’
I quaked as need washed over me. It was mortifying how he made me ache with nothing but a flower.
He tilted my chin sharply with his free hand.. ‘Do you know why I love roses so much?’
‘Everyone likes roses.’
‘No,’ Henry said. ‘Everyone is told they love roses. Because they are pretty. But that’s not what I love about roses. I love that they have contrast. So sharp that they can draw blood, yet so soft they can make even the prettiest, most tightly controlled woman whimper.’
Henry flipped the rose again, making me moan as he tauted me with the velvety flower, dancing it over the crotch of my panties.
‘Too soft,’ I begged.
‘So demanding.’ Henry didn’t give more; he kept me there, on the table, arching toward him in desperation.
