But it is better than fiction…
She smiled against his mouth as he kissed her again, his lips warm and soft, moving in a slow ebb and flow. All she had to do was settle into the rhythm, as she had done when he danced with her. Indeed, she realized it was probably better if she did not overthink it, but let her instincts take over.
A moment later, guided by the tender press of his mouth, she finally kissed him back… and the thrill of it was unlike anything she had ever imagined, even in her wildest dreams.
She clung to him, pouring all of her hopes and sympathy and sorrow and affection into her kiss, learning with each electric touch, guided by his confidence until she felt her own begin to flourish.
As her nerves began to fade, boldness blooming from that former soil of uncertainty, she let her hands smooth up his muscular chest and over the broad ledge of his shoulders, until her arms were looped around his neck. Her fingertips slipped into his silky hair, her mind on fire, unable to believe that this was actually happening.
Kissing her more deeply, with the sort of hunger she had seen in his eyes before, but had never gotten to experience, Cyrus wrapped her up in his arms. He pulled her closer, but when that was not enough, he suddenly slid his arm beneath her legs and scooped her up.
She yelped at the unexpected movement, the shock forcing her to break their kiss for a moment. But as he settled her in his lap and held her tightly, smiling at her with the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, she could not resist.
Her lips found his, her hands holding his face as she kissed him with a vengeance, letting go of the very last of her anxiety. And though the carriage jostled and bounced, Cyrus held her steadythroughout, his kiss never faltering, only growing stronger, more intense.
Everything she had ever dreamed of.
“I am glad I did not kiss you when we first met,” she whispered, breathless.
He paused. “Oh? Why is that?”
“Because I do not believe it would have been anything like this,” she confessed, sinking into his kiss once more, melting into his embrace and hoping that the carriage journey would not end too soon.
The castle had always been gray and cold to Cyrus. He had assumed it was just its natural state, or that it was the home he deserved, but something had changed. Hadbeenchanging for a while, though he had tried to ignore it.
It was not just the bright flowers in the hallways or the addition of tapestries and unearthed paintings, it was in the air… and it came from Teresa.
After returning from town, they spent the afternoon wandering the gardens together, shyer than they had been before. He kissed her hand, perhaps her brow, but he did not dare to kiss her lipsagain. Still, he found he could not put distance between them now, when what he wanted was to be at her side.
“What do you think about a ball, husband?” Teresa asked at dinner, where they sat closer for once; his chair beside hers.
He had noticed her testing new names for him, slipping in the occasional “my dear” or “dear husband.” It was not yet comfortable for him, nor had he attempted to use an endearment in return.
“Here?” He took a sip of his wine.
She nodded. “The moment I arrived, I knew it would be the most wondrous place for a ball. Not that I have any talent for organizing such things. But I am certain that Beatrice would help;shehas a rare gift for parties.”
She looked so enthusiastic, her eyes so bright, that he did not want to disappoint her. But just because something had begun to shift between them did not mean that he was prepared to turn his entire existence upside down.
“I think not,” he replied, offering a look of apology. “I do not care for other people’s gatherings, so I doubt I could abide one of my own.”
She pushed a piece of partridge around the plate. “No, of course. A silly notion.” She raised her gaze and smiled with such warmth that it knocked the air out of him. “I have not the faintest notionwhy I suggested it when I also abhor balls! Goodness, I must have a fever or something.”
He reached over and rested his palm against her forehead. “You are not warm.”
“Then, I have taken leave of my senses,” she said, chuckling.
Perhaps we both have,he longed to say, but he held his tongue. Until he could figure out if this was safe, if this was something that would not end in tragedy, he would not relinquish control to the feelings that were budding inside him.
After all, reality was not like the books she adored so much, that he had read in secret until he was almost at the same part of the story as her. There was not always a way to avert disaster, there was not always a means of escape, and, sometimes, a couple had no choice but to be separated.
“Thank you for inviting me to town with you,” she said, removing his hand from her brow, keeping hold of it.
“It was my pleasure,” he replied softly, drawn in by her touch and the way she looked at him, with no fear whatsoever. She never flinched; she merely gazed as if he were quite wonderful.
I do not deserve this.
Leaning in, he kissed her once—gently—on the lips. He could not resist. She was a flame and he was a moth, helpless to doanything but fly closer to the scorching heat, even if it burned him up to ash. And it would, if anything were to happen to her.
