Page 41 of When Hearts Collide
The hairs on my forearms stand at attention, my body already attuned to the woman I’m sure is standing outside.
I can feel her presence like a hunter sensing his prey.
Snapping open my umbrella, I step onto the small patch of pavement covered by the cement overhang of the building. Sure enough, Millie stands there, her hands rubbing her arms as she stares forlornly at the rain.
She shivers and blows out a deep breath, like she’s trying to psych herself up to run into the elements, returning to her state as a water nymph after an excursion on dry land. Visions flood my mind—the first day when I met her, when I found her on the floor of my classroom drenched head-to-toe and when she looked so cold and lonely standing in front of my desk in my office, clutching the pot of daffodils.
The same overwhelming need to protect her fills me, an inferno blazing my insides.
I don’t want her to become a water nymph again. I want to see her fly in the skies like the meadowlark.
I know I should ignore her and walk away. But I can’t.
Wordlessly, I stride up to her and place my free hand on hers. Her tempting lips part in surprise as she looks at me and for a moment, a brief, selfish moment, I stand there before her, my larger hand on top of her smaller, chilled one, and just look at her.
My eyes rove hungrily over her features, committing them to memory—the thick, shiny chocolate strands billowing in the wind, sending a stronger current of jasmine laced with vanilla toward me, her special brand of magic, the eyes like tranquil waters soothing the ragged edges of my soul, the heart-shaped face, her nose already tipped pink from the elements.
The cool breeze sweeps by, and a lock of hair falls over her face. Wetting my parched lips, I gently brush the strands to the side and tuck them behind her ear. Millie’s eyes widen, her pupils dilating. Her breathing quickens, the pulse thudding rapidly in her throat.
I feel the mirrored frenzied beats inside me.
Step away, the wind whispers. Do the right thing. Be the bastard.
But my nostrils flare and I tangle my fingers with hers, my soul allowing for one more selfish moment, one more taste of freedom. My long fingers glide over hers and a thousand sparks light up my skin, sending heated blood south, the simple touch far more erotic than anything I’ve experienced in the past, with nameless, faceless women.
I don’t remember any of them.
I only see her.
Giving her hand a squeeze, I open her palm and curl it around the handle of my umbrella. She won’t need to be cold again with me here.
Turning away, I walk into the rain, letting the elements soak my body once more. I feel her stare on my back, but I don’t turn around.
Instead, I let the rain wrap me in her embrace. A sharp gust whisks by, an icy front shocking to the senses.
I should be cold, but for the first time, amidst the pouring rain usually making me feel alive when the icy chill settles into my veins, I’m not. Instead, I’m kept warm by the heated intent of her gaze on my back, and my soul has never felt freer.
Chapter 17
A knot forms in my stomach as I stand before his closed office doors once more. This time, it’s not from nervousness. It goes beyond that. It’s like I feel the verge of something monumental happening and these are the few precious moments of calm before it hits. My heart is rattling like a runaway train behind my rib cage, and I clutch the small paper box tighter in my hand.
Heaving out a breath, I knock.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in.” His voice is terse and serious, as usual.
I used to think it was cold and unfeeling, but now I know better. The baritone holds a hard edge but is filled to the brim with banked emotions. The icy man with the warmest touches and gentlest caresses. The one who wordlessly gave me his umbrella so I could stay warm while he walked into the frigid rain.
The quiet, selfless giver.
Opening the door, I find the man who’s been haunting my dreams in a state of undress. Ryland faces away from me and I see his naked back, just for a brief second, before he deftly dons a fresh shirt. My mouth runs dry at the quickest flash of tanned skin and corded muscles, the ones I’ve suspected are underneath his tailored shirts and bespoke suits all along. He’s so huge, all coiled power and banked energy.
He can easily overpower me. My thighs clench at the thought coming from nowhere.
“Sorry, I’m running late for a gala.” His voice is a tendered scrape on my fevered skin and my core pulses, a bolt of heat settling in between my thighs.
“Professor, it’s me, Millie.” I’m proud of how steady I sound. Completely at odds with the roiling of my gut.
