The slightest touch stroked along her hair, following the line from her temple, back to her braid. Was that his finger? The end of his nose? It was so light she could almost have believed that she imagined it, yet it sent an intense shiver rippling over her skin. It was—almost as though he nuzzled her. The thought took all the strength out of her knees.
At the nape of her neck, he breathed, “I think you grow more beautiful each time I lay my eyes on you. It’s happened every time I woke up to find you there, helping me in some way. All I want to do is look at you, to experience it again.”
The moist warm heat of the words felt like a brand. The shiver settled low in her abdomen, and a liquid heat bloomed between her legs. Surely he would not notice if her hand trailed stealthily down her torso to press at the sharp, empty ache.
“Don’t play with me just because you’re bored.” The words were meant to wedge some kind of distance between them and allow sanity back into the room, to cool the insane heat that built so that she could not focus for wanting to tear off all her clothes. Instead they sounded pleading.
“I would never dream of treating you in such a self-indulgent and cavalier manner.” He stroked her back, another feather light touch that explored the contour of her shoulder blade and the indentation just underneath where her ribs curved to her spine. “Xanthe, I have not heard you say my name yet.”
The same pleading she had heard in her own voice was in his too.
Her regard mattered to him.
Her knees weakened further, and her lips trembled.
She whispered, “Aubrey.”
He was silent. She could hear him breathing. Then another brush of sensation at the back of her neck—those were his lips. He had kissed her.
“Thank you, my dear,” he whispered in return as he pulled away.
Chapter Six
Sacrifice
Aubrey backed from Xanthe, his emotions more unruly than ever. Arousal coursed through his body, more powerful than the lingering aches and pains. He had grown hard, and his swollen cock, surprised into life after a year of dullness and disinterest, demanded attention most urgently.
The sensation of her soft, warm skin lingered on his lips. He licked them.
He wanted to lick her so much more.
Restlessness, irritation, his growing awareness of her as an attractive female, it had turned into an all too potent cocktail. Teasing her had been impulse. Pursuing as she retreated had been instinct. He had not thought through any of it; it had just happened, and that was unlike him as he was usually thoughtful and deliberate about everything.
His intellect wrestled with his bucking instincts. It was a tough tussle, but intellect—just barely—won.
He turned away and muttered hoarsely, “I’ll start helping by laying a fire.”
“That would be nice.”
Her voice shook, a telltale, vulnerable sound from such a strong, bright woman. The impulse to sexual aggression flared hot and insistent. His instincts weren’t going down without a fight.
At the hearth, he forced himself to go down on one knee, and he poked at the ashes of the previous fire to see if any live embers remained. He disturbed a few charred sweet potatoes, and he rolled those over to the side then quickly laid the wood. A few glowing coals remained, and soon the fire was blazing.
He straightened from his crouch and moved to a nearby armchair to tend the fire unnecessarily. The soft sounds of movement behind him seemed as loud as a shout, proclaiming that her presence was close and vital.
He glanced over his shoulder and almost laughed. The crazy woman had put more things on the table again. This time, though, he could see that it all had a theme, fruits and vegetables, so no doubt she had meant to do it. She was chopping greens.
Her face was calm, smooth, perfectly expressionless.
Reaction roared through him. He shook with the urge to stalk over, take the knife from her hand, press her up against the wall and cover her lips with his. Spear into her mouth. Anything to strip away that fa?ade and see what really lay underneath.
Her breathing had been unsteady. She had asked him not to toy with her. Her voice had trembled when she had whispered his name.
She had not been indifferent, gods damn it.
He rubbed his face. Maybe he really had died in the attack, and a demon of lunacy had taken over his body. This kind of impetuosity was completely outside of his normal behavior and deeply unsettling.
His wretched cock still wouldn’t bend to his rule either. The air in the cottage had turned much too close and stifling. He rose to his feet and walked out.
Outside, the early evening air was much cooler. After a moment’s searching, he found the covered well and drew a bucket of ice cold water.
First he drank thirstily. Then he dumped the rest of it over his head, gasping and shuddering as it cascaded all over his body. Holy shit. The sensation was keen as a knife, and just as painful, and a fitting way to force him to contemplate the magnitude of his own folly.
He leaned his palms on the rim of the well as water dripped off of him.
The thing of it was, he couldn’t remember a time before when he was ever this attracted to a woman. No doubt it had happened; he had lived a very long time, after all.