Page 85 of Maid of Dishonor

Her responding smile is everything.

* * *

Sam is heavenin my arms.

Truth be told, we only catch the tail end of the sun’s descent below the horizon; we didn’t start out early enough, and we had a bit of a walk to get to the overlook I was aiming for. But now that we’re here, and she’s sitting curled up on my lap with the sleeping bags tucked around us, I don’t want to move.

“Never did Ieverthink I would be sitting on your lap like this,” she says to me as we rest, taking in the sounds of the evening. There’s still a bit of light remaining, but not a ton; we’ll need to leave soon. “I would like to take a picture of this moment,” she goes on. Her breath against my neck makes it hard to focus on her words, but I manage. “Then I would like to turn that picture into a blanket, a mug, and a wall hanging—so that I can see it in every room of my house.” She leans back to look at me. “Too much?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Sam beats me to it—apparently she’d rather be having this conversation with herself.

“No way,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not possible to overstate how huge this moment in time is.” She pauses. “So maybe several mugs, then,” she decides.

“Get me one,” I tell her with a nod.

She grins. “Mug or blanket?”

I look at her, thinking. “Blanket,” I decide. “Let me approve the picture first, though.” Then I look back at the view, because if I keep staring at Sam I’m going to kiss her.

This logic makes sense until I realize: I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

“So how are we doing this?” I say, pressing my face to the top of her head, letting myself revel in her peaches and cream scent, my pulse picking up at the thought of her lips pressed against mine. “Because I’m thinking about kissing you, but do you want me to ask first? Do you want to wait until—”

But my questions die when her hands come to rest on either side of my face. They’re soft and warm and perfect.

She sits up straighter rather than curling into me, turning her head so that we’re face-to-face. “Hi,” she whispers, her eyes darting back and forth between mine.

I swallow. “Hi,” I say. The word comes out garbled, but her proximity, the way she’s looking at me—they make it hard to think or speak properly.

Still, I force myself not to move or lean forward. I want nothing more at this second than to kiss her, but I stole our first real kiss from her when I barged into Maya’s house earlier and all but assaulted her with my lips. So this time?

This time is hers.

“Hi,” she whispers again, more quietly now, more distracted. She trails her fingers down the side of my face as her gaze continues its trek.

And then…she explores.

She’s hesitant at first. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know where to start, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t yet realize that while everything she sees in front of her may bepartof my body, itbelongsto her.

She finally begins with my eyes, her warm fingertips tracing slowly over each eyebrow in turn, dipping then to my eyelids. My eyes flutter closed to aid in her exploration, opening again only when she strokes one finger down my nose.

“Sometimes I dream,” she breathes as her attention turns to my ears, tracing the whorls, caressing the lobes, “that I’m touching you like this. Just your face. Just…meandering? If that word makes sense here?” She smiles distractedly, her focus now intent on its path across my cheekbones.

“It makes sense,” I say, hardly daring to breathe for fear that she’ll stop. She finishes her exploration of my cheekbones and moves to my jaw, her fingers trailing down either side and meeting at my chin. Then, slowly, haltingly, she leans in, her lips ghosting over a spot on my left cheek.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss your dimple,” she says softly when she leans back again, and one finger comes up to stroke the place just vacated by her lips. “Right here. I know you think it makes you look like a kid, but I love it.”

I simply nod, because words have left me. It seems improbable that I’ll ever be able to speak again, in fact.

Sam resumes her path, her fingers trailing down either side of my neck. Her touch is light, but the impact is not.

I shiver, my eyes fluttering closed, my head tilting back to give her better access.

Her fingertips continue their journey as she maps, with precision, every inch of my face and neck—except my lips, I note. She is Lewis and Clark, and I am the great unknown. She leaves no patch of skin untouched, no laughline unexplored.

And when her fingers glide down my neck, over my collarbone, and to the hollow of my throat, dipping just barely below the neckline of my shirt, I finally force myself to move—force my self-control to act before it’s too late. I reach up and wrap my fingers around her wrist, shaking my head slightly.

“No lower,” I say, my eyes opening again. My voice is hoarse, but she understands my words—and their meaning. She simply nods before returning her hands to my hair, running her fingers slowly through, from front to back and then back to front. Her face is a study in concentration, her eyes focused so fully on every move that a full-scale riot could break out around us and she wouldn’t notice.

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