He grabbed a fistful of sheet on either side of his body. “No.” He shook his head.
“If kissing is a part of sex—which I can concede, yes, it is—then let us invoke this transaction of yours. What would you like me to give you so that we might share a kiss? Just a small kiss. Just so that I may see what it is like.”
“Oh God.” He made a strangled noise. His heart was drumming in his chest.
“You aren’t attracted to me?” she guessed. “You find me difficult and domineering. My hair is too black. My eyes are too green.”
He heard the ocean in his ears, like listening to a shell.
She went on, more guesses. “There is no token or favor on offer that is worth kissing me.”
“That is not the way the transaction works,” he managed, sucking in the smell of her skin. “Iwould giveyouthe token or favor in exchange foryouallowingmeto kiss you.”
“But what if I want the kiss outright? What if, irrationally, unexpectedly, the kiss is suddenly the only thing I want?” She leaned closer and whispered, “What if only a show of great disgust would dissuade me? Do I disgust you, Stoker?”
Stoker swallowed hard and locked eyes on her mouth. She swiped her pink tongue across her top lip, and his mouth watered.
She sat up suddenly and he almost gasped out loud. It felt like she ripped out his heart.
“Unless,” she said sharply, “you have a mistress.”
“No,” he breathed.
“One of those old, rich women for whom you dole out favors?” she theorized.
“There is no one since I married you. But Sabine, you will regret this,” he whispered.
She cocked an eyebrow and leaned down again. “Why do I feel like I will regret it if I do not?”
“I’ve no idea,” he breathed, and just like that, his power of speech dropped off. He searched the beauty of her face, just as magnificent at close range. His gaze settled on her lips. His hand moved without his permission to grasp her waist. She sucked in a small breath. He thought,Thank God, I’ve finally alarmed her,although he would howl if she pulled away.
She did not pull away, or slap him, or exhibit even a tremor of traumatized behavior.
Instead, she fell against him.
Stoker made a noise of defeat, capitulation and desire combined, and she scrambled up. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Your wound!”
His hand reached of its own accord and took her up by the wrist, pulling her back. “I feel no pain,” he rasped. In his head the wordsDo not, do not, do not, do notspiraled in time to his pounding heart.
“Oh,” she said. She turned her head and said, “Bridget,out.” The dog leapt, stretched, yawned, and tapped from the room. Just like that, she allowed herself to be pulled back to his chest.
Stoker felt everything. The small ruffle trim furling along the seams of her dress. The lush landscape of her body—flat stomach giving way to ripe breasts, round hips. Her hands scrambling for a hold on his bare shoulders. She’d landed nearly nose to nose and was too close for him to see more than creamy skin, red lips, and black eyelashes.
“I’ve no idea how to go about this,” she whispered.
Stoker closed his eyes. Her innocence should not matter, but every reference was a double edge of possession and desire.
“Oh,” she said, clearly still watching him. “Eyes closed. Right.”
Before he could look again, he felt her breath on his cheek and the tickle of her hair on his ear—and then he was swimming in the fresh butterscotch smell of her.
He tightened his grip on her waist, his most base instinct ordering him to never, ever let her go. With his other hand, he cupped her face.
Gently guide her away,said some hateful, cruel part of his brain, but it was already too late. He felt the light, cool cushion of her lips. He felt her nose nuzzling his. Her hands left his shoulders and slid around his neck.
I’m dying,he thought, a phrase never more accurate in his life.
Ever so slightly, Sabine began to move her lips.
