Page 48 of Dark Embrace

She looked at Killian and asked, “Why?” He did not request clarification. He seemed to understand what she asked.Why me? What is it thatdrawsyou?

He removed his dark spectacles and looked down at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. Then he rested his palm on the top of her head. “Because your thoughts, your intellect, your dry wit appeal to me.” He slid his hand lower and brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. She caught her breath at the contact, struck by the urge to take his thumb in her mouth, to suck on it and taste his skin. “Because the things you say are interesting or funny or wise. Or simply soothing, the sound of your voice, the cadence of your speech.” He stroked his fingertips along her throat, his gaze never leaving hers, then let them slide along her breastbone, and lower, to her waist, her hip. There, he stopped, resting his palm on the side of her hip so his long, strong fingers curved to follow the curve of her buttock. He leaned a little closer. “Because you are not fearless but brave. Because you have a moral core that guides yourchoices.”

His pupils were dark, surrounded by a thin rimofgray.

Her breath came too fast, tooshallow.

“Because,” he said as he walked around her so he stood at her back and leaned close to speak against her ear, his hand sliding forward, his long fingers splayed across her belly. Society would have her protest, refuse his touch, but at this moment Sarah could not think of a single reason to heed society’s norms and expectations. She liked the feel of his hands on her fartoomuch.

“You make me feel things I had thought buried,” he continued. She let her head tip back to rest against him. “I want to touch you, Sarah, caress you, make you cry out in pleasure. I want to coddle you and protect you, even as I want to set you free. I want to watch you fly. I want to give you theworld.”

With his hand curled around the back of her neck, he walked around so he faced her once more. “Have you been with a man?” he asked, his voice alowrasp.

Her voice was gone, stolen by the heat of his fingers on her skin and the look in his eyes. Her only answer was a shake ofherhead.

“I want you, Sarah,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you. I want to kiss you, taste you. I want you in my arms and underneath me in my bed. I want to fill your body and your thoughts. I want to hear you screammyname.”

His words wound through her thoughts, making her see the picture he painted. Her breath came too fast, uneven. Her head spun. She wanted all he described. Shewantedhim.

She leaned toward him. It was enough. With a sound of pleasure, he pulled her against him, his mouth on hers, hard, demanding. His tongue slid past her lips and she opened in invitation, tasting him, teasing him. He moved his lips to her throat, his tongue tasting her skin, her pulse beating a wild and wickedtattoo.

And then hesteppedaway.

“What…” Sarah wetherlips.

“Choose,” he said. “Choose while your thoughts are not muddled by my kisses. Choose to walk to your left and I will ring the maid to serve tea in theparlor.”

“And my second choice?” she asked, stillbreathless.

Killian offered his hand, his lashes sweeping down to hidehiseyes.

Take his hand and follow where he led. Take his hand and follow to a place where he would kiss her and taste her and make her screamhisname.

She took his hand. His lashes swept up, his gaze triumphant andjoyous.

Killian twined his fingers with hers and led her through the house, up carpeted stairs with banisters of gleaming polished wood, through hallways lit only by lamplight, the heavy draperies pulled across thewindows.

At last, they reached a heavy double door, and he threw it open then drew herinside.

“My lair,” he murmured, and a tickle of apprehension crawled through her at his choice ofwords.

She hesitated then stepped deeper into the chamber. The walls were covered in blue paper that had a subtle texture, like velvet. A thick, soft carpet of darker blue with a design of green and yellow birds covered the floor. There were two large chairs before the fireplace, each matched with a low footstool. A spacious room, handsome inappearance.

“You like fine things,” sheobserved.

“Ido.”

“Yet you work in one of the poorest hospitals inthecity.”

An instant of silence. Then, “Because they do not have fine things. I dislike theimbalance.”

She recalled the way he tucked shillings into the night nurse’s apron and realized that she had already known this about him, though she had not defined it in such a pared downmanner.

Her feelings for him bubbled to the surface, and she turned away lest he read them in her gaze. The feelings she had for him were too new, too raw. She was not ready to explain, perhaps to have them rebuffed. She did not think she couldbearthat.

Pressing her lips together, she shifted closer to the fireplace. Above the oaken mantelpiece was a large painting of a river. The dominant colors were blue and aqua and yellow and gold. She gazed up in mute wonder, drawn into the beauty and brightness of thewatercolor.

“Turner,” Killian murmured from behind her. “Some call him the painter oflight.”