Page 21 of The Bull's Beauty
“About…choices.” I peek up at him, but my eyes trace the sharp planes of his face before meeting the intense burning in his dark ones. I can’t seem to look away, caught in him, until thewords tumble out before I can stop them. “Why did you really let me go? You could have stopped me at the gate.”
He holds my gaze. “Because you needed to run. To prove to yourself that you could. And because I needed you to know that if you came back, it would be your decision. Not because I forced you.”
His words sink into me, peeling back the armor I’ve worn for so long. I don’t bristle at being read so easily, instead I just…feel seen. The walls I’d built to keep him out suddenly seemed paper-thin, useless against his honesty.
“Silas,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move to touch me. He just waits. I draw in a shaky breath and shift on my bedroll, hugging my knees to steady myself. Slowly, I lean forward, drawn to the warmth of the flames and of him. My heart hammers against my ribs as I lift a trembling hand, letting my fingers brush along the strong line of his jaw. His eyes darken and I catch the way his shoulders tense, a shiver running through him.
“Beatrice,” he exhales.
“Kiss me, you idiot.”
That is all the permission he needs.
His arms come around me, crushing me to his chest. His mouth finds mine, and it isn’t like any of the kisses I’d known before. It is claiming and reverent all at once, a storm of suppressed need and possession. I melt into him, my hands tangling in his long, dark hair, pulling him closer.
He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against my skin as his lips trail down my neck. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “Of the taste of you.”
He lowers us both onto the soft fur of the bedroll. His solid weight settles over me, his hand sliding up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin
fabric of my blouse. The ache there, which has been a constant, dull throb, sharpens into a desperate, needy pulse.
“Silas,” I breathe, arching into his touch. “Please.”
He understands. His eyes, dark as midnight, hold mine as his fingers deftly loosen the laces of my shirt. The cool night air hits my feverish skin, and then his warm palm covers me. A moan tears from my throat.
He lowers his head, his breath ghosting over my taut nipple. “So beautiful,” he whispers. “All of you.”
And then his mouth is on me.
The sensation is electric, a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure that shatters every thought in my head. His tongue circles the peak, lapping at the bead of moisture that has already gathered there before drawing me deep into the heat of his mouth. He suckles, gently at first, then with a growing intensity that has me crying out, my fingers clutching at his shoulders.
It isnothinglike the farm boys. This isn’t just a physical release. This is…worship. Every pull of his mouth seems to draw not just milk, but the very poison of my loneliness and fear from my soul. I am floating, tethered to the earth only by the anchor of his body on mine.
When he finally pulls away, both of us breathless, he looks down at me, his expression one of awe. “You are everything to me, Beatrice,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “Everything.”
He kisses me again, deeply, and I can taste the faint, sweet trace of my own milk on his tongue. Now, for the first time since they’d torn me from my bed, I felt not like a captive, not like a Hucow, but like a woman. Desired. Cherished.
I tear my mouth from his, gasping for air as I push against his chest, and he releases me instantly, his own breathing ragged.
“Silas, wait.”
His eyes search mine as he pauses for me to continue.
I shake my head, the words tumbling out, a defense forged in blunt, painful honesty. “You should know…I’m not…I’m not some blushing virgin waiting for a bull to claim her.” I force myself to hold his gaze, my voice dropping, laced with a bitter, self-deprecating spice. “So don’t think you’re getting some untouched, innocent little cow.”
I expect shock or disappointment. The cold withdrawal of a possessive male realizing his prize is flawed.
It doesn’t come.
A slow, devastating smile curves his perfect mouth. His eyes darken with something hotter, deeper than mere lust. It’s pure, unadulterated hunger.
“Good,” he rasps, his voice like gravel. His thumb strokes my lower lip, a tender gesture that makes me shudder. “I don’t want innocent.” He leans in again, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “I want a woman who knows her own mind. A woman who knows what she wants. And I am going to spend the rest of my damn life making you forget every boy’s name in that beautiful, furious head, except for mine.”
His words are a sinfully delicious promise that coils low in my belly. The fight drains out of me, replaced by a throbbing, aching need that’s entirely new. He doesn’t see my past as a flaw. He sees it as a reason to ruin me for anyone else.
And Gods help me, I want him to.
