Holy mother. Had he ever touched anything as exquisite as her hair? He honestly couldn’t think of anything thatcompared, and he had the overwhelming need to bury his fingers there, this time more deeply.
With it flowing over her shoulders, it was practically begging to be touched, so he delved his fingers in again, winding them until he had a fistful. Only when he brought the fistful of it to his mouth and nose and breathed her in did he realize she’d grown absolutely still and her body tense.
He pinched his eyes closed. What in the devil was he doing? Why was he giving in to this desire for her? Out of respect for her and to their pretend relationship, he had to put an end to any physical contact immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he started.
Before he could finish, she lifted her hand from where it was still resting on his chest and placed it against his lips, cutting off his apology. She held her fingers there with a gentle pressure that shifted his mind from her hair to her fingertips.
He wanted to kiss them. Rather than denying himself, he brushed a kiss against her fingers.
She sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t move away.
Should he issue another apology? He didn’t want to. Instead, he wanted to kiss her fingers, this time lingering on each one before moving to her palm or her wrist. Did he dare do it?
The thudding in his chest beat hard, demanding more.
Before he could gather his resolve, one of her fingers skimmed his lower lip. The touch was delicate, like a flower petal. She traced along the curve and then moved to his top lip, where she softly drew a line all the way across to the other side.
She was feeling whatever was building between them too. That was obvious.
As she began to lower her hand, he scooped it up and this time brought it to his lips. He kissed the tip of one finger, then the next, and the next until he reached the end.
With each kiss, she drew in a breath, as if each of his kisses surprised her—or delighted her.
What was he doing? He couldn’t kiss her, not even her fingers. It was too much.
He started to release her, but before he could, she drew his hand to her lips and began to kiss each of his fingertips the same way he’d just done to hers. Her lips skimmed each one, softly, gently, but lingering long enough that he felt the imprint of her mouth. It seared through his skin and branded him, marking him as hers.
Could he really be hers? Was that a possibility? Or was it only a dream?
As she reached his last finger and placed the kiss there, he didn’t want her to stop, wanted her to go on kissing him, not on his fingers, but on his lips.
Somehow during the finger kissing, she’d twisted around so she was facing him and almost sitting on him. Instead of lowering his hand, she placed it against her cheek, giving him permission to touch her face.
While he couldn’t see her beauty, he had no trouble imagining the lovely shape of her face as he cradled her cheek and rubbed his thumb over her jawline.
In the next instant, she brought her hand to his face, palming his cheek, letting her fingers explore the crinkles beside his eye, his eyebrow, then his forehead. She circled back around to his chin before her fingers once again grazed his lips.
The desire to kiss her fingers again pulsed rapidly. Hestarted to reach for her hand but before he could, she guided his face forward so that her lips collided with his. The impact was forceful and thorough, leaving him no doubt that she wanted the kiss.
He had no doubt he wanted it too. He angled in and welcomed the kiss she was offering, giving back to her the forcefulness and thoroughness in turn.
Passion flared up almost instantaneously, like flames crackling between them and around them, consuming them with a heat. She was on fire, and everywhere she touched him or everywhere he touched her ignited more flames. But he didn’t incinerate. Instead, he only wanted more, needed more, burned for more.
This kiss wasn’t like the other two they’d already shared—the one in the pub and the one at the engagement party. No, this kiss was unlike anything he’d ever known, one filled with a longing he suspected wouldn’t be sated by anyone else but her. Oh aye, this kiss had unlocked something inside him, something he feared he wouldn’t be able to cage up again. It wasn’t just passion toward Zaira. It was something deeper, something more encompassing, something more life-altering.
Was it love?
A swell of panic rose inside him. No, it couldn’t be love.
He gave a shake of his head, breaking their connection and pulling away. He was on his feet in the next instant and took a step back.
He didn’t want to be swept up into the feelings of being in love, didn’t want his heart to dictate his actions, didn’t want to be so passionate about her that he couldn’t think rationally about whether they were right for each other or not.
He’d already determined that passion would only cause him to rush into a marriage, perhaps with the wrong woman. Because how could he know that Zaira was right for him? That he was right for her? That they wouldn’t despise each other in a few years?
Oscar had always said those who were most passionate about each other often had the most beautiful highs but also the most tragic lows. No doubt he’d been speaking from personal experience.
