“Would you read it to me?” she asked in hope.
“I can’t do that.” He dropped the papers to his lap at once.
“Why not? Any writer should have their work heard. For one thing, how else are you to know if it’s any good or not?” Her words made him chuckle warmly.
“It could be quite dreadful indeed.” He nodded in agreement. “Yet it is not ready to be heard.”
“Ah, you are a perfectionist?”
“Perhaps.”
She leaned forward, the new position of her body giving him the perfect view of the way her gown hugged the curves of her lithe body. He was now the one to fidget in his own chair, fearing his length would harden just at this playful conversation with her sitting a short distance away.
“Please? Just a hint of what you can do. I’d love to hear it,” she pleaded.
How can I refuse her when she is looking at me like that?
He thought of those green eyes looking up at him and pleading for something else entirely. He did his best to shift the thoughts from his mind and lifted one of the pieces of paper from his lap, his eyes darting over some of the lines of poetry within.
“You’ll give me your honest thoughts?” he asked.
“I will.”
“Even if it’s dreadful. You will tell me as much,” he pleaded. “I need to know if I am an appalling poet.”
“I’ll speak the truth,” she promised, sitting forward and giving him her full attention. Quite transfixed to have caught her attention so strongly, he returned his gaze to the paper and began.
“She’s out of reach, like a star burning bright,
Yet the flames scold and rage within, firelight.
If she knew what could happen if the fire
Was released, the heat, the thrill, she could inspire.”
He paused and waited, raising his eyes from the paper to look at Callie.
She sat perfectly still, her teacup half raised to her lips, which were parted. It was as if she had been frozen solid by his words.
“That … that kiss has been much on your mind,” she murmured quietly.
“How could I think of anything else?” He dropped the papers to his side and stood, needing to do something, to be animated suddenly. He took his teacup with him, drinking so fast that he managed to burn his tongue. He set the cup down on the mantelpiece. “What did you think of the poem?” he asked, his gut tightening.
“It’s beautiful.” She was suddenly on her feet, too, following him closer to the fire. He leaned on the mantle, turning to face her as she approached. “You have talent, Marcus. Great talent indeed.” She smiled softly. “I cannot believe you would write about me, though. There must be another –”
“There is no other.” He cut across her, needing her to know this. She halted in front of him, placing her teacup beside his on the mantle.
“It is your passion, isn’t it?” she murmured.
You? Yes …He nearly said the words aloud but scarcely managed to hold them back.
“Poetry,” she went on, and he nodded.
“How about you? What’s your passion, Callie?” He stepped towards her a little, and she angled her head around to face him. That pleasant blush rose on her cheeks again. It made him tilt his head to the side, thinking of kissing her, of reliving that pleasure that had coursed through him before in this room.
Would they go further the next time? Would they become entangled in this room, their hands pulling at one another’s clothes with a desperation to explore each other?
“Mine?” she whispered. Her eyes darted down to his lips and then back up to his gaze again. His stomach lurched in hope, seeing what she had done.
