Three steps.
That is all I manage before the awareness of her behind me sharpens instead of fading, settling into the space between my shoulders like a presence I cannot dismiss. The humid air clings to my skin, thick with the scent of soil and water and crushed leaves, and something in it feels heavier now, charged in a way that has nothing to do with the environment.
I pause, and look over my shoulder, as if my gaze can somehow diminish her. She meets my eyes spark for spark. Why does she continue to stare at me so?
“You do not fear me?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her voice soft.
I spin around and close the distance with two long strides. My hand encircles her throat, her fragile, pale human throat.
“I could end you right now,” I say, and my voice wavers. Wavers! Her pulse thuds against my fingers, eerily calm considering my threat.
“I know,” Lyria replies, her voice tight from my grip.
“And still you do not fear me? I could kill you without any consequence. Skot would simply find someone else to dig in the garden dirt.”
“I know,” she says. “But you would gain nothing from my death, either.”
She is wrong. I would gain freedom from the incessant thoughts of her beating behind my eyes day and night. Yet, what price, freedom? Too high. The price is too high.
Slowly, her hand lifts, her fingertips brushing the cord like tendons sticking out in stark relief on my arm.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but she does not answer. Not with words, anyway. Her touch is equal parts infuriating and soothing. The dichotomy is not one I can reconcile.
“I have longed to touch you,” she gasps as if in sudden relief. She grows bolder, her hand now caressing my cheek. I wince as if I’ve been touched with fire, but she does not stop. “You are so angry, yet underneath it all, so sad.”
“You seek to comfort me?” I scoff, but the words have no venom. My grip loosens slightly on her throat. My eyes close as of their own accord as I cannot help but bask in her silken touch.
“I…don’t know what I seek,” she says. I feel the words through my fingers as I hear them.
“You lie,” I rasp, my voice growing hoarse with sudden, urgent need. “I know what you want from me.”
“And what would that be, my Lord Verginyon?” she asks with faux formality.
Words fail me. I know what she wants, because I want it too. I move my face closer, and pull her into me. Her warm breath anoints my skin. Her red lips part slightly as her eyes half close.
I crush her lips with a kiss, my heart racing as I taste her for the first time. She does not resist. Far from it. She releases a sighing gasp into my mouth, and her body melts into my own.My hand is no longer on her throat. It’s now on the back of her head, clawing at the red scarf binding her hair.
We pull apart slightly, enough to lock gazes. Something unspoken goes between us. I pull the scarf away, freeing her magnificent curly red-gold tresses.
“You will no longer hide your beauty from me,” I rasp, my hand caressing her cheek. Her hands go to my chest, kneading like a pet cat. Her eyes are anything but innocent, however. They smolder with a fire that stokes the inferno raging inside of me further.
The heat of her body is immediate now, cutting through the damp air, her breath brushing against my mouth as she inhales again, steadier this time, controlled despite the acceleration I can feel
My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the base of her hair, holding her there, and this time when I pull her closer, she moves with it, matching the motion with a certainty that stirs my desire to even greater heights. Could it be that she wants me as badly as I want her?
Impossible.
“Mine,” I growl.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I kiss her neck, tasting the salty sweat on her skin. She clings to me like a swimmer in a storm tossed-sea clutching a rock. My cock twitches hard, rapidly engorging itself on blood to the point I feel light headed. She feels it against her.
And she presses harder into me. There is no illusion left, now. No denying what we both want. What we both need.
I grab her bodily, thrusting her against the garden wall with impetus. She lets out a gasp born not of fear or pain. My hand goes to the rough, homespun trousers concealing her loveliness. The laces frustrate me, so I tear them with a fierce tug.
