“No, he’s not.” I feel a swell of emotion, although I can’t put my finger on what it is. A mixture of resentment, impatience, hurt, and frustration. How can I have been in a relationship for over two years and yet feel such a deep, abiding loneliness? I don’t think Jude ever knew me. And somehow, I feel that Archer, despite keeping his distance, can see right inside me.
But it doesn’t mean he can overlook that incredibly sensitive set of inner scales he has on which he weighs his principles. I feel for him. I’m flattered by his declaration, but I also love how honorable he is. He’s like a Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the English order that promotes chivalric behavior. I bet his family motto isHoni Soit Qui Mal Y Pense—shame on him who thinks evil of it.
“Tell me honestly,” I say, “does this feel wrong? Because if it does, and if you’re going to regret it, I’ll go into the spare bedroom right now and go to sleep.”
He hesitates, but doesn’t answer.
I move forward on the sofa, just a fraction more, and look him in the eye. It takes all the courage I can summon to say the next words, but I’m determined not to give in without trying my hardest. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.” I feel my face flush, but I don’t look away. “I’ve often wondered what my life would have been like if I’d met you before…” I trail off, not wanting to say my ex’s name again. “If I’d met you first,” I finish more firmly. “I’ve been a coward, and stayed in a relationship that has been decaying for a long time. But it’s done now. That’s not the wine talking. And it’s not as if he’s fighting tooth and nail to keep me. He knows it’s over. That’s why he said what he did. We’re done.”
My gaze slides to his mouth. I want to kiss him, but I’m not going to. “I’m free,” I say simply. “I’m single. And I’m here. So tell me, does it feel wrong? The thought of kissing me? Of touching me?” I lift my gaze back to his and try to let my eyes convey my desire, and my need. “Of being inside me?”
I watch him, and I see the exact moment that his internal scales dip, and he gives in.
Very slowly, his lips curve up. He lifts his left hand, and he slides it against my cheek into my hair, then lets the strands slip through his fingers.
“So soft,” he murmurs.
I shiver, that innocent touch sending tremors all through me. He notices, and I half expect him to apologize, but he doesn’t. Instead, his smile broadens, and he does it again, sliding his fingers into my hair, against my scalp, then running the strands through his fingers. He does it a few times, watching me, and I think he’s enjoying seeing the effect he’s having on me.
He looks into my eyes, as if he’s forcing himself to acknowledge this is real, a meeting of our minds, not just of our bodies. We’re not getting carried away on a sea of passion. We’re making an informed decision.
His eyes are hot. Okay, there might be more than a bit of passion playing a part in this.
He slides his hand into my hair again, but this time he moves on the sofa toward me. I’m curled up, turned toward him, and he slides a hand beneath my knees and lifts them so he can move up close to me. He helps me move, adjusting our positions until I’m fitting snugly against him. His left arm is around me, and now he lifts his right hand to cup my face.
“I’ve dreamed about this for a long time,” he whispers.
“I hope it’s not too disappointing.”
He snorts, as if he would never feel that way in a million years. Then he lowers his head.
I close my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me, and I’m surprised when I just feel the light brush of his lips against mine. Barely a touch, so gentle it makes my lips tingle.
“Mm,” he murmurs. He does it again, a butterfly kiss in the corner of my mouth. Another a few millimeters along. Again, in the center of my lips, moving gradually from one side to the other. I realize he’s prolonging the moment, drawing it out for us, for me. He’s making me wait.
I didn’t expect this. I thought that once he gave in, our clothes would fly in our desperate urge to connect. That it would be fast and furious, because he’d want to get it over with before his guilt could kick in. But this man seems determined to surprise me.
He places kisses up my cheekbone. Over my eyebrow. Down my nose. Back along my cheekbone.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, and gently turns my head to the side. Then he continues kissing along my cheekbone to my ear. He touches his lips to it, then his tongue, exhaling so his hot breath engulfs it. When I shudder, he just says, “Yes,” and continues kissing it, tracing the curve of my ear with his tongue. When he gets to the top, he moves behind it, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin there, and kisses down, over the mastoid bone, and then continues down my neck.
I tip my head to the side, drifting into a semi-conscious state, my thoughts and actions becoming blurred and hazy, all my nerve endingsfeeling as if he’s jump-started them like a car engine. He presses his lips slowly down my neck, pausing at the point where my pulse beats, and then I feel his mouth close over it, sucking gently, as if he wants to feel the beat of my heart on his tongue.
“Ohhh…” My eyelids flutter with bliss. I’ve never been touched like this. And I’ve never felt like this before—both alive and sleepy with burgeoning lust. This is how a seedling must feel when it’s still beneath the ground, and it’s spring, and the first rain seeps into the earth… or a hibernating bear, waking from his sleep…
He pulls my hair gently, making me tip my head back, and then he kisses my throat, pressing his lips back up to my mouth. By the time he reaches my chin, I’m aching with need, and he hasn’t even kissed me properly yet.
I drop my head, and before he can start the process all over again, I crush my lips to his.
He responds with a deep, sexy groan, his hands tightening in my hair, and when I open my mouth, our tongues tangle, sliding against each other seductively. I lift a hand to his face, stroke his beard, then move my hand up to slip into his hair, the short strands on the back of his head prickling my fingers.
His arms slide around me and he lifts me easily, and I move to sit astride him. He tightens his arms, bringing me flush against his chest. Now I’m pressed against him from my breasts to my groin, and ohhh… I can feel how hard he is, even through my cut-downs.
He wants me. I didn’t imagine it. His desire is real, almost palpable, a living thing between us like a fiery dragon that wants to consume me. I didn’t realize how much I needed this. And I’m not going to wait a moment longer to take advantage of it.
Chapter Six
Archer
