Page 22 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

It’s not until I’m safely ensconced at the front of the shop, the cool air from the street a balm against my overheated flesh, that I allow myself to breathe. To acknowledge the truth that I’ve been trying so hard to deny.

I want her.

With a hunger that terrifies me, a need that goes beyond the physical to something far more dangerous. And if I’m notcareful, if I don’t get my head on straight and remember my place...

Fool, I castigate myself. Weak, pathetic fool, undone by a hint of skin and a half-formed fantasy.

But even as I layer myself in self-loathing, I know the truth.

This wanting, it’s more than base lust. It’s a hook behind my ribs, a fist squeezing my lungs.

It’s the first stirrings of something far more dangerous than simple desire.

And I have no idea how to fight it.

9

ECCO

My pulse pounds in my ears as I slump against the wall of the dressing room, desire thrumming through my veins.

Holy hell.

I can still feel the heat of Graeme’s gaze licking over my skin like a physical caress. The way those icy blue eyes raked over my body... Gods. I’ve never seen him look at me like that before.

Like he wanted to devour me whole.

For one heart-stopping moment, I saw my own hunger reflected back at me. That same deep, desperate yearning. It turned my legs to jelly.

What if I had given in to my instincts? Crooked my finger, beckoned him closer... Pulled that hulking, granite body down onto the dressing room bench and finally discovered if the old myths about gargoyles are true?

I imagine the rasp of his stony flesh against my most delicate places. Those powerful hands, gripping my thighs, pinning me to the wall as he?—

“Ugh,” I groan, thumping my head back against the door.

This is exactly how I always get myself in trouble. Chasing the wrong men, the ones destined to obliterate my stupid heart.

It’s not like I evenlikeGraeme, I remind myself sternly. He’s a grumpy, boring slab of rock, gorgeous or not. Just because my body reacts to him like a lit match to dry kindling doesn’t mean I should do anything about it.

With a resolute nod, I stand and get dressed, steadfastly ignoring the persistent throb between my thighs.

By the time I emerge from the dressing room, a bright smile is firmly in place, my steps light and breezy as if I don’t have a care in the world. Graeme falls into step beside me, his face as impassive and unreadable as ever.

If he notices anything amiss, he doesn’t show it. There’s no indication that he’s replaying that charged moment over and over in his head like I am. That he can still sense the sizzle of awareness singeing the air between us.

We don’t speak of it. As if we have some silent, mutual agreement to pretend it never happened.

But it hangs there, weighty and stifling. It dances along my skin, hums in my veins, steals the breath from my lungs until it’s all I can do just to breathe in a normal rhythm in his presence.

“Ecco! Over here!” Mariah’s voice cuts through the tension, a welcome lifeline I cling to with giddy relief.

She’s waving at me from across the shop, cheeks flushed with excitement as she beckons me closer. “I had the best idea for the flower girl accessories!”

It helps, losing myself in the whirlwind of Mariah’s wedding plans. In bouquets and centerpieces. Miles of lace and rivers of organza. I nod along to color schemes and finalized appetizer options, oohing and aahing at pictures of enchanted ice sculptures and champagne fountains.

But even so, I’m constantly aware of Graeme’s presence.

It doesn’t help that he’s never more than a few feet away. Watching. Guarding.Tempting. It’s maddening, how much Iwant him. Infuriating that I can’t seem to turn it off no matter how hard I try.

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