Page 44 of Daring to Love

“I never knew I looked like that when I dance.”

The wonder in her voice makes me feel ten feet tall, knowing I’ve had a hand in making her realise what a beautiful sight she is. The fire inside her is out in full force, her body frozen forever in midair and her hair in disarray while a small smile plays on her lips. Her arms and legs are up, bent in ways I never thought a human body could twits itself into, but she makes it look effortless.

“Wow,” she breathes.

I squeeze her tighter in my arms and kiss her softly on her neck, breathing in her scent.

“Believe it,” I murmur in her ear. “The fire inside you comes out when you dance, and the camera encapsulates it. I’m going to keep that one,” I admit on a whim. “I could never part with it. Plus, the photographer sent others that’ll fit the article.”

I stop talking, all at once nervous if she’s guessed how much I need her in my life.

Have I told her too much? Can she hear how much in love with her I am?

She lets out a shuddering breath and puts the photograph down to the others lying on top of the printer, smoothing it flat as if afraid she’s accidentally creased it.

“Thank you.”

She glances over her shoulder, beaming at me, and I can’t resist taking her mouth. So that’s what I do – I plunge my tongue through her lips, teasing her and giving her everything as well as take my fill of her. Her low moan sends my blood simmering, but before I lose myself in her, I pull back.

“Come,” I huff, “let me feed you.”

She nods and puts her hand in my outstretched one, entangling our fingers.

“You know me so well already,” she laughs.

Her good mood is infectious, and I grin at her because it’s true: she’s always hungry when we meet up, usually having come straight from the dance studio. I’m not much of a cook, but I make a mean lasagne.

“Can I help?”

I shake my head and pull out a chair at my bar.

“Nope. Just sit down and relax, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

She shrugs but does as I ask.

“What should we talk about?”

I consider my words carefully as I get the food out of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

“I want to know more about you,” I start and rest my arms on the counter opposite her.

Her eyes shine with mirth as she takes a sip of water.

“Ever the journalist, eh?”

I give her a crooked smile.

“Partly, but I’m also a selfish bastard. Tell me something that you’ve never told anyone else.” I wink exaggerated at her, loving the sound of her snort-giggling. “Make me feel special.”

“Okay…let me think.” Her eyes turn thoughtful, and I set about cooking the meat and giving her some time. The truth is I am being selfish. I want her to trust me completely, to know that she can confide in me and whatever she tells me won’t be repeated elsewhere.

The article hangs over our heads, but we don’t talk about it much. The contract was finally approved by her solicitors and she signed it and sent it to the legal department, and I know she feels more secure now in the knowledge that she’ll have the final say in it before it goes to print.

But I want her to trust me.

“I was adopted when I was three days old.”

My head snaps back in her direction.