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His hold around her throat tightened, and when she tried to gasp for more air, she couldn’t. He counted, forced himself to, then relaxed it, giving her a chance to breathe. She screamed again as he finally found his release. Declan only had enough thought and presence of mind, as he slumped forward, to make a mental note to stoke the fireplace, and bring Rosamund a blanket. Her body was limp beside his, but he could hear her heart, and knew she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t fucked to death, at least not yet. Soon. Very soon. But first... sleep.
“I was afraid you would not want me beside you,” he confessed as his gaze dropped to her lips. “That you might be afraid of me. That I might have harmed you. I wanted to give you space.” “I want you still,” she murmured as she leaned in, her lips nearly brushing his. “I’m not afraid of you. You never harmed me. And I never want to be away from you again.”
Once again, she froze, but she returned to herself much quicker, a grin spreading over her lips as she rushed towards him. He was nearly knocked over, her supernatural speed surprising him, but he caught her all the same and pulled her close. Perfect, wonderful, amazing... his little stalkerish archivist who had researched him and tracked him down. Magnificent. Ethereal. Goddess. His.
“Have I told you I love you yet?” she asked with a giggle, making his non-beating heart long to stop.
Love... yes, she had, and yet...
He kissed her, silencing her words. Love... it was such a small word compared to how he felt, and how he suspected she felt in return. Love was... finite, while they were eternal. And as he whisked them into his library, into the very thing which had seduced her, the gift he would give her a thousand times over... He loved her with his touch and with his kiss. And the words to properly explain how he felt, to place the right label on it... they would come with time. After all, he was her favorite author.
