Page 33 of At First Smile
For three more fast paced songs, we weave through the clusters of fellow dancers. In the brief moments he brings me in close, the quiet hum of his voice singing along to the song drifts into my ears. His low off-key melodic timbre has its way with me causing goosebumps to lick down my skin.
Harley’s talented fingers seamlessly transition into an acoustic version of Elton John’s “Your Song.” The almost haunting melody twines around the room, pulling couples together. Big hands clenched at my waist; Rowan brings me close. My arms encircle the nape of his neck. I close my eyes, burrow in just a little more and press my head against his chest. His masculine woodsy scent, body’s warmth, and heart’s gentle beat cocoon me. One hand still on my waist, while the otherslides to my back and presses me tighter. Caged between his firm chest and strong hand, I’ve never felt so free.
“Being in your arms feels right.” My admission is a muffled whisper against his chest.
No sound breaches his lips. The only response is the sensation of a gentle kiss on the crown of my head. It’s not patronizing or placating. It’s confirmation. His hold’s tender firmness punctuates our shared understanding that we’re both exactly where we want to be.
A few more slow songs, one laughter-filled clumsy attempt for Rowan to match the fast beat of Harley’s rendition of “Uptown Funk,” and three more glasses of bubbly we leave the bar. Our chuckles echo against the hallway’s hardwood floors and the paneled walls as we head to our rooms. My left hand is in Rowan’s, while a folded Cane Austen rests in my right.
“I had fun tonight on ourmaybedate,” I tease, a little starry-eyed and tipsy, turning to face Rowan.
My back presses against my room door, it’s coolness powerless against the inferno that engulfs my body. Peering up through the fringe of my eyelashes, a coy smile curls my mouth.
His thumb swipes lazy circles across my hand still linked with his. “Me too,” he murmurs, his free hand rests on the door jamb above my head. His gaze, on full display with his now backwards cap, mingles with mine.
“What color are your eyes?”
“Green.”
“A green-eyed Irishman,” I say playfully.
“I’m half Swedish on my dad’s side.”
“Lutefisk and soda bread.” The joke emerges breathy and a little sultry from my lips.
God, I want him.I could just take him, but he needs to kiss me first. As much as I think this attraction isn’t one-sided, I need the assurance that I’m not the only one in this. That I’m not theonly one willing to risk for this growing connection between us. It’s one thing to know someone is attracted to you, but quite another thing for them to want you. To want you so much that they act.
“Something like that.” He chuckles.
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.The plea, no doubt, is visible in my eyes.
Releasing our linked hands, he places his warm palm on my cheek. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are, luv?”
My heart roars.
“This silky mane.” His fingers twirl a long strand. “Those adorable glasses and big honey brown eyes. These plump lips.” His fingertips drag along my lower lip before moving down to my throat. “Such soft skin.” He moves lower and traces a heart shape above the swell of my breasts. “And this heart makes me want to fall to my knees and worship you.”
Every ounce of breath rushes out of me. My pulse’s cheetah-like cadence is wild and ravenous.
He leans in, his nose nuzzling a sensitive spot below my ear, and inhales deeply. “You have this candied smell like a fucking sweet treat that I know I shouldn’t have but am desperate to taste.”
“Rowan.” Both syllables thrum with a pleading need.
He pulls back. “Pen.”
Electricity surges between our locked stares. Desire blooms inside me, slickening my core with arousal. Hard peaks brush against my bra’s lacy fabric. My grip on my control and cane loosens. Cane Austen crashes to the hard floor with a loudclunk.
“Shit,” I gasp.
Rowan blinks. The crashing cane wakes us both from this spell. He bends, picks her up, and hands her to me.
“I’m sorry. I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He rubs his palm over his face. “I should…”
“Should what?”
“Go to bed.” He steps back.
My blood turns arctic.
