Suddenly, she snatched her hand away and stood. She gaped at him. “But is this how I’ve made you feel? Do you feel like I’m taking advantage by touching your arm when you’ve asked me not to?”
And for the third time that day, Stoker was caught entirely off guard. He blinked, he opened his mouth, he closed it. “Ah—no,” he said.
The skin on his arm sang where she’d touched him. He lowered it, pressing his palm into the mattress until his wound stung. He wanted to snatch her hand back; he wanted to tug her back to her spot beside him on the bed. He made a strangled noise and closed his eyes, willing his self-control to catch up, to catch on, toresist.
“Oh,” Sabine said, and she returned to her spot beside his hip. He opened his eyes. No amount of self-control could prevent him from seeing her sit beside him.
She said, “I should never want to take advantage.”
“Sabine...” he began, struggling to find the correct words. “You cannot take advantage, because the benefit of you touching my tattoo or my arm or any part of me would beentirelymine. So you needn’t worry about taking anything from me or a misbegotten balance.”
“Really?” She looked confused. “The only gain? Because I quite liked it, too. You are very strong, but you are also very controlled. It’s intriguing. I cannot say why I want to touch you, but I do.”
And then to his mounting disbelief, she lifted her right hand and reached halfway to his arm. A question. She raised her eyebrows.
Stoker’s body surged in response, even while he thoughtno, no, no, no.
This was a woman who refused to convene with him for more than five minutes twice a year to exchange mail. This was a woman who had struggled to drag his bleeding body down the hall because of her great distrust of all men.
“Sabine,” he rasped, “what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, extending her hand farther. Her fingertips were nearly to him. His skin sizzled with anticipation, the muscle twitching. His body had begun to betray him, part by part. He was weak and voracious at the same time. Failing and surging. Shrinking back and grasping.
“May I speak frankly?” he asked. It was a reasonable question that came out in broken, cracked tones. He cleared his throat.
“Can you?” she challenged.
He narrowed his eyes. And now she would be coy? Without thinking, he reached up and snatched her hand, entwining his fingers. She sucked in a breath and endeavored to pull free, but he held her firm. This was allowed, he thought. This, too, was not sexual. This was a taste of his strength and speed, but it revealed none of his roiling desire.
“Sabine.” He spoke quickly, lowly, a confession. “Forgive me if I make assumptions or misread your intent, but the touch of your hand and the look on your face do not feel curious or clinical or even friendly. Do you know how it feels?”
Her beautiful green eyes had gone wide. “Let go of my hand,” she said, and immediately, he released her.
“Forgive me,” he said, feeling panic soak him like a driving rain.That did it. I’ve frightened her, damn it all to hell. I’ve overstepped. I’ve—
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Youasked meif I know how it feels. I don’t know—so tell me.”
“It feels sexual,” he answered immediately. He meant to shock her with bold, coarse talk. It was also the truth. He meant to tell her the truth. “It feels sexual. In nature. Do you know what that means?”
The cream of her skin turned pink and her beautiful lips opened to a pouty O. Slowly, she shook her head. It was one of the most sensual gestures he’d ever seen. His brain leapt, missed, leapt again, trying to catch hold of something he could add to this already brazen statement. Would she make him say it? Would she—
“What?” she demanded, and then boldly, confidently, she wrapped her hand around his forearm.
Stoker’s vision shrank to her fingers. Sensation frothed beneath the skin. His arm buzzed and tingled and radiated warmth.
Of course she would make him bloody say it.
“Are you a virgin, Sabine?” he heard himself ask. It didn’t matter; itwouldn’tmatter, but it would inform what he would say next. His mouth went dry. He wondered if he would manage to hear her answer over the pounding of his heart.
“Of course,” she said.
Stoker was pulled under with an undeserved and unaccountable wave of relief. He struggled to catch his breath.
“Of course,” he managed to repeat. He paused, picking around the chaos in his brain for words that might safely end the journey on which they’d somehow found themselves.
