Page 119 of Tangled with the Tight End

There’s no mistaking his intention.

His hand slips around mine, protective—almost possessive. And he says, “You always make me feel better, Winona.”

His eyes are on me, watchful, testing.

I smile at him, giving his hand a light squeeze to tell him I’m right here with him. I want to give him permission—to let him know this is what I want—everything I’ve been wanting for weeks.

He runs his thumb over my hand in the slowest stroke and I feel the ripples of his touch radiate through me.

He lifts his hand away from mine and I almost gasp at the loss. But then, he’s cupping my jaw.

His voice is low and reverent. “You’re not like anyone else I know.”

His gaze drifts over my face. The golden glow in the room defines the ridge of his nose, the sharp angle of his jawline, leaving half his face in shadows. His eyes practically shimmer in the firelight.

“You’re so … unexpected.” His thumb gently caresses my cheek, and my eyelids flutter shut.

I open my eyes to catch the sincerity of Declan’s gaze.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, Winona.”

I want to say something, but I’m wordless, soaking in every confession.

His words should surprise me. But the way he looks at me, with sincerity and longing in his gaze, cuts through the surface, making them land deep inside me.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Running his thumb over the back of my hand. “Do you even know? Your hair …” He runs his hand down my crazy, messy end-of-the-day hair, and an almost pained look passes over his face, as if he aches to express his thoughts.

Or maybe he feels like I do when I look at him—so much longing it almost hurts.

“Your eyes …” Declan’s thumb grazes the soft skin next to my eyes, trailing down the side of my face and landing on my neck just over my pulse point. “I think about your eyes all the time—so expressive—the way you look at me, the way they crinkle when you laugh.”

I’m barely breathing. My heart hammers in my chest.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and in a low voice he says, “Your lips.”

They hum in response to his words—the way he’s staring at them.

Declan swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs and I watch the movement, mesmerized.

His hand is back on my face, cupping me as if he’s trying to keep me here.

“I … I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” he says.

Weeks? I swallow a lump in my throat and lift my head, placing it back on the pillow in a spot closer to him.

He moves in and repeats the word as if he’s in anguish. “Weeks.”

“You’re beautiful too,” I say. It should sound cheesy, but it’s true. He’s one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever seen, especially up close. Every feature draws me in. But his beauty comes from a place much deeper than his outward appearance.

I’ve spent my own eternal stretch of weeks fighting the urge to cross this invisible line with Declan. He has no idea how I feel. And now, I’ve made it sound like his looks are the best and most attractive part of him.

If only I could show him how I see him.

I’m practically burning up with the urge to kiss him. I never allowed myself to dream of kissing him. Every time the thought of kissing Declan crossed my mind, I applied Herculean effort to keep those thoughts suppressed and denied.

I lay my hand on his chest right over his heart and say, “Especially here. You’re beautiful here.”

It takes half a second for me to realize I just reached out and laid my hand on Declan O’Connell’s chest. My palm is warm, zinging at every point of contact.