The words touch me somewhere deep and tender, a place I keep carefully guarded even from myself.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush a stray lock of hair out of his face. My fingers brush the rough line of his jaw.
He lifts his hand then—slowly enough that I could pull away if I wished—and closes his fingers around my wrist. Not tight, not the way Charles does. Simply there, warm and comforting.
My pulse stutters beneath his thumb.
“And one more thing,” he says softly.
I do not trust my voice, so I only raise my brows in question.
He watches me as though weighing every breath I take. “You need,” he murmurs, “to be touched by someone who has no desire to conquer you.”
The kitchen seems to shrink around us.
My hand remains against his face. His thumb traces once, almost absently, across the inside of my wrist, and the gesture sends a shiver racing up my arm.
“And is that another one of your deals?” I manage to ask.
A strange softness enters his expression then, something almost regretful. “No, Your Majesty.”
He leans closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Close enough that I notice the scent of smoke and night air clinging to him.
“That one,” he says quietly, “would cost you far too much.”
My heart pounds so loudly, I am certain he must hear it. I do not move away. I do not step closer either. I simply remain suspended, caught between caution and recklessness.
His gaze flicks once to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
The words hover between us like a drawn blade.
I open my mouth.
And no sound comes.
Chapter 27
Iclose the distance.
It is the smallest movement, barely there. My lips brush his in a feather-light kiss.
For a heartbeat, he does not move, and then he exhales.
The sound is not triumphant or possessive. It is a broken, aching thing—drawn from somewhere deep in his chest, like a man who has been drowning and has only just cracked the surface. A soft, reverent moan against my mouth, almost disbelieving.
I feel it more than hear it, a rumble underneath my feet, as if the earth itself responds to our kiss.
His hands do not seize me. One remains warm against my waist; the other still cradles my wrist as though I am fragile and priceless. He lets me choose the pressure, lets me set the pace.
I press closer.
His lips part beneath mine—slowly, searching. There is no demand in it; his hunger is held carefully in check, like a question asked without words.
I answer.
My fingers slide from his cheek into his hair, fisting it and pulling it ever so slightly. He shivers, anotherlow sound escaping him, softer this time, a whimper, and it does something devastating to my heart.
He is not conquering, he is receiving.
