“My name; say it. I’ve always wanted to hear it on your lips.” He kissed her quickly, then retreated, waiting.
“Heathcliff,” she murmured softly, the word a litany on her lips.
He kissed her again, deeper, searchingly. When he pulled back enough to speak, he breathed her name.
Samantha.
How long had she waited to hear her name, her true name on his lips? It had been a delight to hear it earlier that morning, and its power hadn’t weakened at all. A smile tipped her lips, and she reveled in the sound, the way his masculine voice caressed it.
There was something so deep, so searchingly beautiful about hearing your name on the lips of your beloved.
It might not be love yet . . . at least not for him. But as long as he said her name like a prayer, it would be enough until his heart caught up with his words.
