Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(38)

“That’s real nice, Ava Grace,” said Laire, standing up and dusting off her shorts. “Now, how about you go with your daddy and get cleaned up, huh?”

Ava Grace looked up at Laire with something akin to hero worship, then turned around and took her father’s hand just as the first raindrops began to fall.

“Thanks,” said the dad, looking grateful. “You’ve got a way with kids.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Laire shrugged, but her cheeks colored, a sign of pleasure. “Just got a lot of little cousins.”

“Can you say good-bye, Ava Grace?” he prompted.

“Bye, princess lady,” she called, staring at Laire over her shoulder until they stepped inside the gatehouse.

Erik’s experience with children was minimal, but like the child’s father, he couldn’t help but note that Laire had a special way with the little girl, and though he wasn’t anxious to be a father just yet, he tucked the memory of Laire and Ava Grace away. Who knew? Someday he might want to take a look at it again.

He almost told her she was amazing, but remembered her warning not to place her on a pedestal and switched gears.

“You do look like a princess,” he said, reaching for a lock of her hair and tucking it behind her ear.

Her cheeks, already pink, deepened to red. “You’re making me blush.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

His lips found hers effortlessly, and he counted off in his head. Kiss number two. I get twelve more today, and I’m not wasting any. Tracing his tongue along the seam of her lips, she opened for him like the flowers she’d been photographing, and he sucked her tongue gently into his mouth, inviting it to play with his.

The rain fell harder on the back of his bent neck and slid down his forearms, which held her tightly against his body. He could taste the warm summer sweetness of the drops as they slipped between their lips and heard them interspersed between their light moans, landing in gentle pitter-patters on their hair.

When she leaned away and opened her eyes, there were droplets in her eyelashes. She was smiling, her lips rosy and slick. Suddenly he had an idea. “Come with me!”

Taking her hand, he ran down the path, past the statue of Queen Elizabeth I and the Sunken Garden, mentally crossing his fingers that the little gazebo was still there in the north corner of the gardens, hidden and private.

They were soaked by the time they raced up the steps of the small, six-sided structure, which had three little benches inside and was covered with a cone-shaped thatched roof. Laire’s arms glistened with rainwater, and her once silky curls lay damp and flat around her shoulders. He ran his hands through his own wet hair, slicking it back, staring at her with a feverish intensity as he realized that they were alone. Very. Much. Alone.

Finally. At last.

Her eyes, now more black than green, stared back at him as her chest, covered with her wet, skintight top, heaved with exertion.

“Laire,” he murmured, the sound of her name breathless with want.

“Yes,” she whispered.

***

They launched themselves at each other, their lips colliding. Erik’s hand reached for her cheek, holding her face firmly as his fingers plunged deep into her hair. Kissing her madly, he walked her backward into a corner of the small structure, her shoulder blades hitting the walls behind her. She leaned her head back into the void as he wrapped his arms around her, the heat of his lips forging a furious path from her mouth to her throat, resting for a moment on her throbbing pulse, licking the droplets of water from her skin with his silken tongue. The hands around her back slipped beneath her shirt, quickly unsnapping the clasp of her bra as she buried her hands in his hair, demanding his lips again.

Their teeth collided as she arched against him, her hands flush against his cheeks as she directed their kiss, aware of a sudden, welcome warmth on her breasts, protecting her sensitive skin from the cold wet of her bra and shirt. Her breath hitched as she felt a quickening, a ripeness, a realization, and then—like the blinding shock of white lightning against a dark sky—she felt a streak of lust rip through her entire body as his fingers gently rolled her nipples.

She whimpered with surprise and desire, the word more circling endlessly as he kneaded the delicate, virgin skin of her breasts and his tongue mated relentlessly with hers. Rubbing the straining points, the pad of his thumb brushed over the aching buds as she shamelessly pushed her breasts flush against the warmth of his hands.

This is wrong. This is too far.

She heard the voice in her head but was helpless to stop him because she wanted this so desperately. She wanted his hands on her secret places. She needed the heat of his flesh pressed intimately against hers, learning the peaks and valleys of her body just as certainly as she wanted to know his. His touch, gentle yet searing, sent shivers of longing down her spine and warm waves of desire just south of her belly, where they pooled. High tide, building higher and higher.

His kiss grew more urgent, and she trembled in his arms, her eyes rolling back in her head as she tried to catch her breath. With his palms cupping the fullness of her breasts and his thumbs still massaging the tender tips, she shuddered in his arms, her body tensing for one glorious moment. And then . . . she felt something within her give way, break apart, collide, and shatter, exploding into a million pieces that rocked her being from the core outward. Vinelike tendrils of passion unfurled through every limb of her body, stretching her from within as she convulsed in his arms and her panties flooded with wet warmth. His lips were gentle against hers—the eye of her body’s storm—nipping softly, brushing tenderly. His hands still covered her breasts, but his skin rested easy against hers, organically now, not erotically, like it was simply meant to be there, like his flesh was born to seek hers, and, once together, like they should never again be apart.