I caress the stubble on his jaw, his chin, then round the lobe of his ear, the very place I kissed this morning. “What?”
“You’re giving me that kind of discomfort again.”
My smile turns sly as I’m reminded of what he said before he left me in the gallery. “Am I?”
The pound of his heart slams against me, echoing mine. “You know what I said about it.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you recall.”
“Oh, I do,” I say, lowering my head. With my position high on his waist, I hover above him. I slide my forefinger from his jaw to under his chin, forcing his face higher, until our lips are mere inches away. “You said if I ever made you feel this discomfort again, you wouldn’t want me to stop.”
His grip tightens on me. “Exactly,” he says through his teeth.
“So I won’t.” Lowering my lips, I brush them softly against his cheek.
38
BRIONY
He hisses a breath as I plant the kiss on his cheek, then another beside his mouth. It’s his lips I want to claim, but I resist. After the game in the gallery, this feels safe. An extension of the torment I took pleasure in delivering him. I can’t help but feel if our lips meet, something will change between us. I’m not sure what that change is, but I want it. Yearn for it. And I want him to be the one to make it.
I pull back and study his face. His lips are parted, eyes half closed. I lower my face again, this time to his neck. Brushing my lips over his collarbone is still not a true kiss. Nor is the way I drag my tongue up the length of his throat or the way I press my mouth to his temple.
I run the hand still buried in his hair down his neck, between his shoulder blades, sliding it against the skin between his still-beating wings. With a gasp, he pushes me tighter against him and buries his face in my neck. His lips caress the space beneath my ear, but it still isn’t a kiss. He drags his mouth across my shoulder, rounding its curve and making the sleeve of my chemise slip lower down my arm.
Still not a kiss.
I pull back, taking in the desire etched clearly over his face. My nightgown slips lower, baring the top of my breast. I hold his gaze, making no move to adjust my top. Instead, I arch my back, letting the muslin bare me completely. He bites his bottom lip and I curl mine, daring him with my eyes.
What are you going to do, Thorne?
He lowers his mouth to my clavicle.
Still not a kiss.
He brushes his lips over the top of my breast, his tongue flicking over the generous mound of my flesh.
Still not a kiss.
I arch into him, and he closes his mouth over my nipple for all of a second before releasing it. A gasp escapes my lips at the momentary pleasure.
But it still isn’t a kiss.
Frustration, lust, and desire burn every inch of me, inside and out. I tilt his chin again, bringing our lips level, our eyes locked. Why is he resisting me? Does he too sense that a kiss—a real kiss, not a tease, not a game—might change things between us? Does he not want that?
Stars, I don’t even know why I want it, but I do. So badly do I want this change. I want him to kiss me. I want him to seek me for once. Since I’m constantly pulling him into my dreams, calling to him with my emotions, I want him to come to me this time. Just so I know this isn’t all in my head. That this desire goes both ways.
I know it does. Without a doubt.
But I want him to show me.
I press our foreheads together and close my eyes.
Maybe I’m getting carried away.
A slow, shaking sigh escapes his lips, his breath brushing the very place I want him to kiss. “We can’t do this.”
