Page 45 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I swallow and force a nod. It’s easier than making the vow out loud.
After a long moment, he says, “Okay. Okay, then. I’ll stay.”
A slow breath leaks out of me. Thank the goddess. “Okay. All right. Thank you. Now will you sit down?”
His face pulls into a frown. “What? Why?”
“Because. I want to see you. I want to look at you. I want...” Something heady and dazzling slides into my mind. “I want to try something.”
Wariness hardens his features. “What kind of something?”
“You’ll see.”
The sharply etched lines of his body all tighten in synchrony, but after long seconds of contemplation, he does as I ask. He lowers himself into the armchair, one hand still shielding his groin. He’s almost too large for the seat, his size rendering the thing ridiculous.
But the chair is probably sturdier than it looks. Sturdy enough to take the both of us.
I hope.
“Put your hands on the arms,” I say.
His eyes darken. “Birdie,” he says, a warning.
I wave the word away, though I can scarcely say where all this assertiveness is coming from. Probably the same place that hoards the words he spoke to me the other night.I love you so much, and want you so badly, that I can’t see anything else, sometimes.
“I’m not going to touch you,” I say. “Not directly, at least.”
“Just…indirectly?”
“Yes. But nothing that risks our Marks. I swear it.”
He chews on that, then grudgingly spreads his arms and clamps his fingers around the armrests. He splays his knees, putting himself on full display. And...
My tongue thickens, growing heavy in my mouth. He’s beautiful everywhere. Thick and lovely where he strains against his sodden shorts.
When he catches me staring, something new kindles in his eyes. It almost looks like a challenge, and I realize how right he was—this is warfare. Flat out. But hopefully the kind where we both can win.
I step closer. I end up standing between his spread legs, my silk-clad knees bumping against the cushion. I stare down into honeyed, half-lidded eyes.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air threatens to combust. Weston’s gaze wanders, carving a blazing path down my body.
I shiver and reach for his wrist, closing my gloved fingers around it. I lift his hand and set it against the curve of my waist.
He stems an inhale. So do I.
“See?” I manage, once I recover from the shock. “We’re not touching.”
He stares at where his hand molds to the swell of my hip. His palm is broad and rough, and gives off heat as if the drenched silk separating us isn’t even there.
I release his wrist, but his hand stays in place. After a breathless moment, he lifts the other to collar my waist in his grip.
He hesitates. Then tugs.
I pitch forward, ending up with my hands braced against the chairback, my forearms inches from his ears. He tips his face up and searches mine. My wet hair drapes around him.
He shapes a velvety curse. “This is what you wanted to show me?”
“Yes.”
