Talk Sweetly to Me (Brothers Sinister #4.5)(23)

She lifted her hand tentatively. He had thought that she might brush his cheek. But she didn’t. Instead, she took his hand. They were both wearing gloves; he should not have felt a thrill at the brush of cloth on cloth. But he did, and it swept him from head down to toe, settling particularly in his groin, warming him in the cold air.

“But I do fear.” Her hand clasped his. “You’re clever and never off balance around others. You’re handsome and sweet and outrageous. You could hurt me so badly, and I’m afraid to let you do it.”

He swept his thumb along the side of her hand. “Sweetheart, if you don’t trust me yet, there’s no assurance I can give you that will put your mind at ease. All I can do is keep on not hurting you, and keep on, until you know in your bones I never will.”

Their fingers intertwined, their hands coming together, palm to palm. He was enchanted, enraptured. She let out a long slow breath and slowly reached out with her other hand. This one she set on his shoulder. His skin prickled through his coat, his whole body tensing with her nearness. She drew a finger down his collarbone and then laid her palm flat against his chest.

He couldn’t move.

“I trust you.” Her voice was low, so low. “God knows I shouldn’t—but I trust you.”

She stepped even closer, skimming her hand down his arm, his elbow, and then bringing it back up to his shoulder. She took another step in, now, bringing her body even closer to his, warming the channel of air between them. He could feel the heat of her breath, the tension in her hand against his chest.

“Truthfully?” Stephen leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I can’t pretend I’m fit for a decent woman—but if the question is whether I’ll hurt you? No, Rose. Never. I adore you.”

She took another step in, ducking her head as she did so, as if she did not want to look into his eyes. But her hand slid around his shoulder, drawing him full-length against her body.

Cold? It wasn’t cold in the spire. How silly of him to think it had been. The air seemed almost hot around them. His whole body was coming to life with her against him. He put his arm around her—it seemed fair game, as she was pressing against him, and it was either that or hold it out awkwardly to the side. But she didn’t protest at all. Instead, she set her forehead against his chest. Her hand slid down his back; his arm came around her shoulder.

She lifted her head. They were both breathing heavily.

“I don’t think I should have touched you,” she said shakily. “It’s—it’s…“

“It’s nice.” His own voice came out like gravel.

“It’s too nice.”

“It gets nicer.”

She leaned against him. “How is that even possible?”

“Ah, well. I promised not to importune you, or you’d discover it. If I hadn’t, this might be a little less chaste.”

“Chaste?” She let out a shaky breath. “This isn’t chaste. It’s utterly wanton.”

“On a scale of wantonness that ranges from…” He paused, trying to think of a suitable analogy. “From multiplication to astronomical parallaxes,” he said, “embracing someone you care about while fully clothed ranks at about the arctangent level.”

“Oh, dear. And I’m already so overheated.”

A wave of his own heat washed over him at that, and he groaned, pulling her closer. “God, sweetheart. You’re killing me.”

She reached up tentatively, and set her fingers against his cheek. He stilled.

“May I slay you further?” she whispered.

“By all means,” he replied, unable to move. “Kill me now.”

His breath stopped. He couldn’t do anything but watch her. She stood in place, her hands on him unmoving, as if gathering up the courage to move forward. Then slowly, very slowly, she came up on her toes. Her weight shifted; he could feel her hand against his jaw, her other hand against his chest, pressing all the harder.

Then her lips brushed his. She was kissing him—lightly at first, just sliding her lips against his, then pressing with greater firmness. He set his hand against the base of her spine and kissed her back.

There was nothing else, nothing but her, the weight of her in his arms, the warmth of her breath, the soft press of her mouth.

“Rose,” he said against her lips. “God, Rose.” He shifted so that he could gather her up, so that the curves of her body slid against him.

She must have been able to feel his erection pressing against her, must have felt the tension in his arms as he held her close.

Usually at this point for Stephen, matters would have easily, swiftly progressed beyond a mere chaste close-mouthed kiss. But he’d promised Rose not to importune her—and no matter how urgently his body responded, there was something delicious about the slowness of the pace. He reveled in the sure knowledge that this would not be the last and only time he tasted her. He could slow everything down, enjoy the electric build-up of desire, delight in every gasp she gave.

“Have I earned a quarter of your evening yet, Miss Sweetly?” he murmured against her lips.

“I don’t know.” Her voice still had a quaver. “I need a little time to decide.”

She kissed him again. He could have fallen into a trance, kissing her. Feeling her lips against his, awakening her first ardor with brush after brush of the lips. He wasn’t sure when the kiss deepened, when he began taking her lips in his, when he first slid his tongue along her bottom lip. She responded with all the enthusiasm he’d ever hoped for, her tongue meeting his, tentatively at first, and then more boldly. He was lost in the feel of her. The space was close about them, warming to the point that the window nearest fogged over with condensation.