He reached over the table and caged her chin in a forefinger and thumb. “Do you really know what you say you want? If you want me, you cannot be running from me, Ariadne.”
“I was in shock,” she said. “It’s like having a veil ripped from my eyes.”
After holding her gaze, he pulled away. “I think the best way for you to get comfortable with what you want is not to leap into bed at once. I think you need to get comfortable with your desire and understand that it is not somede rigueuract just because of marriage.”
She blinked, “It’s not?”
“No,” he reached for his knife and fork. “It’s not.”
Looking at her plate, she asked. “What do you suggest I sample?”
“The pheasant.” He said, “It's soft and succulent, the way I like it.”
She went red as she began to eat, and as the soft silence descended on them, he was acutely aware of the charged energy between them. Burnished by the scones on the wall, her hair was an intriguing mix of rich mahogany and russet.
Some of the thick tresses had escaped their pins, the thin, wispy tendrils framing her face. It was the kind of seductive bedroom air that ladies spent hours trying to achieve.
She seemed utterly unaware of her natural appeal: the undone locks made her look as if she’d just risen from a roll in the bed. Only God knew why she’d chosen to disguise her assets behind the dowdiest dress he’d ever seen, but that felt aligned with her circus-tent nightgown.
“Did you rest today?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And thank you for writing those periods in. I’ve found that they really help, especially on certain days.”
“Good,” he closed his utensils and leaned back to sip his water.
When she slid those tines between her lips, he dryly noted that if she had been a flirt, her mouth alone would have secured her fortune; coral shade and deliciously plump, he pictured how prettily they would wrap around another part of his anatomy.
Ariadne closed her utensils and reached for her water while his eyes dropped to her plate. She had eaten just over half of her servings.
“Did you eat much today?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I just cannot eat much with you staring at me this way.”
“Which way am I staring at you?” he asked.
Her eyes dropped to the bones on his plate. “As if I were your last serving of pheasant and you want to suck the last piece of meat off me.”
Throwing his head back, he laughed, deep and guttural; to his surprise, though, Ariadne did not look abashed. She was staring at him with dry humor, and when he’d stopped his crowing, she asked. “Was I wrong in that assessment?”
“No,” he said. “You have an intruding mix of naivete, unintentional sensuality, and refreshing honesty.”
“Why, thank you,” she replied.
Holding her eyes, he said. “I want to kiss you.”
Ariadne blinked and blinked once more. “Here?”
He pushed from his seat and nodded to the couch. “Over there.”
She looked over and shimmied from the table to stand; it did not take her long to cross over to the couch, where Cedric was already seated. Looking to his side, she asked, “There?”
“No—” he grasped her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “Here.”
Her lips opened once again, but he swallowed any word she was about to say in a deep, lingering kiss. With the softest, sweetest moans, she melted into his hold; lacing her arms around his neck, she held him close.
Pleasure rushed through his veins like a blustering bonfire, and a ragged groan left his throat. He tugged her closer, cradling her on the softness of his thighs.
“Are you not afraid I’ll ravish you?” Cedric pressed a soft kiss to the tiny pulse flickering wildly above her collarbone, then nipped that tender bit of flesh.
