Page 37 of A Devil in Silk
His heart wept at the sight.
And yet, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. It took every ounce of strength to keep his expression calm, to remain steady when all he wanted was to pull her into his arms and swear she was still beautiful. Still whole.
Instead, he met her gaze with quiet reverence. “Thank you. I’m going to brush the hair from your brow and run my thumb over the scar, just once. You have my word.”
He reached up gently, letting his fingers trail through the strands at her temple. The tension in her shoulders was a silent storm, but she didn’t pull away.
He could feel the energy shift.
The wave of emotion gathering inside her.
The conflict behind every ragged breath.
His thumb skimmed the scar, a strange intimacy flowing between them. Without thinking, he let it drift down the soft curve of her cheek, pausing at the edge of her mouth before daring to trace the fullness of her lips.
The muscles in his abdomen tightened.
She’d always been an irresistible enigma to him.
“You think all I see is a flaw,” he said, the need for more burning in his chest. “I don’t. I see strength. Endurance. I see a woman who refuses to be broken.”
A sudden gust rose up from the city below, catching the edge of her cloak and sending it billowing behind her. With a startledgasp, Clara reached for him, her fingers clutching his coat for balance.
They stood with barely an inch between them, her breath feathering his cheek, her head tilted ever so slightly as if she could sense the shift in the air.
His gaze dropped to her lips as hers lifted to his.
Her fingers gripped his lapels. His hands settled on her back. And in a heartbeat, their mouths collided.
It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and surprise and a hunger they would later deny.
There was no prelude, no finesse, just a rampant mating of mouths and the desperate desire for more. He tasted her sigh, drank it like a man starved, but it only sharpened the craving. The kiss deepened until thought dissolved and the world narrowed to the press of lips, the graze of teeth, the tangle of breath.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless and a little dazed, all he managed was a hoarse, “Clara!”
It was a plea.
It was a question.
It was the only word that made sense in the madness.
Clara didn’t answer. She was panting, still clutching his coat. For a moment, he thought she might retreat. But then she dragged him back, her mouth finding his again, fiercer this time, as if she could devour the doubts between them.
Bentley groaned, his hand sweeping over her waist, down the curve of her hip. She arched into him, the chill wind powerless against the fire raging between them.
Her mouth parted, inviting him in. He tasted her, drank her sigh, felt her tremble. His world shrank to the warm sensations, the desperate glide of their mouths, the maddening friction as their bodies found a rhythm born of age-old need.
Her hand slipped beneath the hem of his waistcoat, her fingers skimming his shirt, branding him with every tentative touch. His heart thundered, but he didn’t rush her. He let her lead, let her explore, let her decide how far they’d fall.
Because this wasn’t just desire.
It was trust.
And she was offering it to him in breathless pieces.
“Perhaps we should add rampant kissing to the top of both our lists,” he gasped when she pulled away. “One taste of you isn’t enough, Clara.”
She stared at him, panic flickering behind the soft rise of colour in her cheeks. She moistened her lips but shook her head. “I … I think it’s time we went home. It’s late. I’ve seen enough of the city.”
