His free hand came up to her face, his palm rough against her cheek. She turned her face into his palm. Pressed her lips against the callused skin.
"I am here," she said. "I chose to be here. And I need you to stop being noble about it and take me to bed."
Chapter 30
Targesh scooped her up with one arm under her thighs, the other around her back. Verity's breath caught at the effortless strength, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her through the door to the sleeping chamber.
The bed was exactly as she remembered it—massive, piled with furs, built to hold a man twice her size. He set her down on the edge and stepped back.
"Off," he said, gesturing at her dress.
She reached for the laces at her bodice. Her fingers fumbled. The shaking had come back, not from fear but from the sheer overwhelming fact of being here, of having said what she said, of watching him watch her with eyes that tracked every movement of her hands like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Slower," he said.
She stopped. "What?"
"I have imagined this." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "For two days I have thought of nothing else. I am not going to rush."
Verity's hands stilled on her laces.
He stood at the foot of the bed, arms at his sides, making no move to touch her. The firelight from the main chamber reached through the doorway and caught the planes of his face, the silver threads in his scars, the absolute focus of his attention.
"You imagined this," she said.
"Every hour."
She pulled the first lace free, then the second. The bodice loosened. She could feel the fabric shift against her breasts, the slight release of pressure.
"What did you imagine?"
His eyes dropped to her hands. Tracked the movement of her fingers as she worked the third lace free.
"This," he said. "You."
The fourth lace. The bodice gaped. She was wearing a shift underneath, thin linen that hid nothing in this light.
"What else?" she asked.
Fifth lace. The bodice fell open. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it pool at her waist. She felt the weight of his stare like a touch.
He stepped forward. Knelt at the edge of the bed, his massive frame bringing his face level with her chest. His hands settled on her waist, thumbs pressed into the give of her belly.
"This," he said as he leaned in. "All of this softness. Mine to hold."
Verity threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. He growled, the sound thrumming against her sternum, and nuzzled into her, tusks dragging slow lines along her ribs. She lifted her hips, and he tugged the dress down, past her thighs,letting it fall to the floor. Her shift followed, yanked up and over her head in one motion, leaving her naked on the furs.
His hands slid up, cupping the weight of her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they ached.
"These curves," he murmured, voice thick. "Built for plenty. For me."
She parted her thighs, bold with the need building in her blood. His nostrils flared, eyes darkening further.
His hands left her breasts and slid down, spanning her waist, her hips, the soft swell of her belly. He pressed his face against her stomach and breathed in, a deep inhale that made his shoulders shudder.
"Two days," he said against her skin. "Two days I stayed away. Told myself it was the right thing."
"It wasn't."
