Page 21 of The Rest is History
Her neck is shapely. Elegant. So narrow, I want to slide a hand around it. I wonder how close my thumb and forefinger would come to meeting.
And her scent. It’s one I’ve caught traces of when she enters or leaves the History office, or we pass in a corridor. I’ve been more painfully aware of it today as we move around together. It’s light and floral and ridiculously feminine, and here in this dark corner of the palace it’s rising off her skin and overloading my senses to such an extent that I’m practically reeling.
I want to bury my nose in that soft place where her neck meets her shoulder, where a choker of pearls is currently pulled taut, and never, ever come up for air.
I want to follow the scent trail under her clothes. Find out where she sprays her perfume each morning. Show her the effect it has on me. How it undoes me.
‘Charlie?’
Shit.
‘Sorry. Er…’
I attempt to pull myself the fuck together and focus on the task at hand. I inspect the damage. One of the tiny gold rings that connects the choker’s clasp with the string of pearls has opened a fraction, allowing a couple of fine threads of fabric to become ensnared.
No big deal.
‘The thingy next to the clasp is caught on the hood. I’ll just snap the threads.’
Or not.
I grip the fabric with one hand and try to secure the metal ring in a pincer grip with my other so it holds when I yank the two apart. My knuckles graze her skin as I attempt to pull. But it’s too tiny. Too fiddly. I can’t get enough traction. If I pull any harder, I’ll ruin the little piece of metal.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I’m going to have to get my teeth involved.
‘Any luck?’ she asks. Her voice comes to me through the sensory haze the sight of the tiniest hairs on her neck is inducing.
‘Nope.’ Dammit. ‘You were right. If I pull them apart, I’ll most likely bugger the necklace. I think I’ll have to break the threads with my teeth, if that’s okay.’
‘Okay.’ Her voice is small. She’s still bracing herself against the wall with her hand as I loom behind her, the back of her skirts brushing against the front of my doublet.
This is not a good position. Not in the slightest. I know exactly what it makes me think of, and that’s something I can’t allow, not for a second, because my fabric codpiece will be no protection at all. For her or for me.
I take one more step, closing the distance between us, and lower my head to the patch of her skin that’s never failed to undo me, these past few months. A smattering of goosebumps has erupted on the nape of her neck. My fingers are shaking. Fuck’s sake.
My mouth closes over the offending part of her choker. It’s so bloody short that there’s no slack to pull it away from her skin. My cheek is actually resting against her neck. The coiled hair of her bun touches my temple. My mouth and nose are far too close to her skin for this to be in any way sensible.
That sweet scent invades me again.
Jesus Christ.
She’s so much better up close. Better in every way than I could have possibly imagined.
The desire to turn my head, to kiss her, to wrap a hand around her shoulder and clamp down on her breast and pull her to me while I devour her skin with my lips and teeth and tongue is so acute, so intense, I could faint from it. This must be how crack addicts feel.
I close my eyes, savouring the moment as I use my heightened sense of touch to find the trapped fibres and my heightened sense of smell to drink her in. Because God knows, I’m unlikely to have another opportunity like this. I grit the threads between my teeth and they fray easily. Too easily.
The fabric comes away from the necklace, and I reluctantly raise my head from her body. I put my hands on the choker to straighten it up, sliding pearls over skin until the clasp is perfectly centred at the back of her still-bowed neck.
There.
Perfect.
I pause for a second, allowing my thumbs the briefest contact with the skin directly below her choker. My fingertips graze the hallowed spots where her square neckline meets her shoulders on either side, and I bow my head in reverence.
‘All done.’
