I proceeded to tell her about my newfound skill and its side effects.
Her brows drew down to a thundercloud once I was done. “How could you not have mentioned this? This is huge news, Jack!”
“So is the fact that you’re having sexy dreams about me. I wouldloveto talk about that instead.”
Chiara made an adorable, growly noise. “You’re not distracting me.” She jabbed her finger my way, leaning forward. “The fact that you can make any part of you corporeal is critically important. That’s amazing! Show me.”
“Pardon?”
“Show me how it works. How do you make your finger physical?”
I studied her for a moment and then looked at her hand resting against the arm of her chair between us.
How often had I dreamed of touching her skin?
I lifted my own hand, bringing it over hers. She watched the movement, eyes riveted on my index finger.
I fixated on the differences between our hands. Mine was at least two of hers, large and strong with rangy knuckles and tanned skin, scars here and there from accidents over the years. I might have been an aristocrat, but I liked to get my hands dirty. I dug alongside my workers when on archaeological sites and had even been known to help with sheep shearing while still in England.
Her hand was Chiara in miniature: small, fine-boned, criss-crossed by dark blue veins. Her skin was smooth but tendons flexed under the surface, hinting at hidden strength.
Longing pounded through me. I wanted to hold her hand, caress it, sweep my thumb across the soft skin on her wrist—
Motivation.
Concentrating, I pushed my index finger fully into this world. Sensation shot up my arm, followed by searing pain. I refused to lose focus.
My finger hovered over her hand for the merest fraction of a second. And then I pressed my finger against the back of her hand.
Chiara gasped, flinching slightly but otherwise holding still.
Her skin was even softer than it looked. Pillowy. Silky smooth. Gloriously warm. My concentration nearly shattered from the shock of it.
So long. I had been so long without any physical human contact and to have the first beher. . .
We both stared at my finger, as if we had somehow created it together and it now held meaning outside of us.
Electricity zinged up my arm. Some small part of my brain screamed in amazement:You are touching her!
Agony pulsed through me, the pain licking flames of sensation. But somehow, the touch of her overcame it. Not even the fires of hell could hold me back. Unable to help myself, I dragged my finger down, down the back of her hand, running a fingertip over her knuckles and smoothing the skin between her fingers.
Chiara let out a shuddering breath. I could feel the gentle puffs of air from her lips on my solid skin.
I wanted more. To run my finger up her arm, draw it across her lips and sink my entire hand into her hair, tug her gently toward me—
Pain shattered my concentration, forcing me to let go of my finger. My fingertip went from entirely solid to the barest wisp of form in the blink of an eye.
Dizziness swirled and then righted itself.
Her shocked gaze met mine.
Had she felt it, too? Had my touch affected her as it had me?
The honesty in her brown eyes said that it had.
It was too much. Too strong a reminder of all that I had lost. Of everything that could never be.
That painful clenching grabbed the back of my throat—tears without being able to cry. I turned away and walked to the other side of the room, facing the wall, trying to find my emotional equilibrium.
