Page 156 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
His hands cradled her face, angled it softly, gently, as his tongue swept into her mouth. And she mewed for him as he tasted her. She pushed her tongue against his.
‘Oh,’ she moaned as he possessed her mouth. Claimed it as his. And it was his. It had only ever known his tongue. His taste. It was what she craved. What she’d yearned for since that night.
Him.Only him.
His hands moved. He swept the hair from her face, trailed his fingertips down the column of her throat, over her bare shoulders, down her arms, and she tingled.Everywhere.
His hands went to her waist. His lips pulled away from hers. But she knew this time he would come back to her without prompt or persuasion.
He was hers. As she was his.
This, them, it was fated.
Destiny.
‘It will not be like last time,’ he promised, and swept her into his arms. She knew she was safe with him.
He moved back towards the window. To the sun now throwing gentle rays onto the dark floor.
‘I know,’ she said, and touched his cheek. Stroked it.
His step faltered. He looked down into her upturned face. His cheeks were flushed. His pink lips parted enough for her to feel the shallow exhale of his breath touch her skin.
‘I want to look,’ he said. ‘I want to see all of you.’
‘Then look.’
He nodded. A single dip.
Gently he placed her on her feet before the window. Positioned her directly in the sun’s warmth. And turned his back on her.
She didn’t speak. She watched him. He moved to the sink with stealth and yanked free a felt tapestry from the wall beside it. But he didn’t come back to her. He moved to the other wall and tore free the brown fur hanging there.
His eyes were black as he came towards her.
Her stomach somersaulted. A deep ache settled between her thighs. She reached for the tops of the spaghetti straps of her dress and pushed them off her shoulders.
‘No,’ he gritted out. ‘Not yet.’
Her hands fell to her sides. Her heart raced harder, faster, as he knelt at her feet and spread out the tapestry. She now realised it was a pelt of soft, short fur.
‘Here,’ he said, and turned to her, held out his hand. ‘Sit with me.’
She allowed his hand, warm and big, to close around hers, as he helped her down onto the floor with him.
They sat in front of each other on the makeshift bed.
The sunlight danced in his hair, which framed his face and fell to his shoulders. Her breath caught as she took in every line of his sculpted face.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she husked, because it was true.
‘No.’ His hair moved forward as he shook his head. And she touched it. His chestnut hair was highlighted with grey and red. And it was like silk in her fingers. Feather-soft.
‘Yes,’ she corrected him. ‘You are.’
His hand reached for her, and he stroked her own hair in return.
‘The night I saw you in the gardens,’ he said, ‘I thought you weren’t real, but a vision sent to torture me.’
