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If you don’t kiss me, I’ll die. She’d said it as though she’d known her life was in his hands, and with a kiss, he could save her.
“It’s madness, at first, or maybe always. It’s … possession and fear, passion and joy. It’s indescribably sweet, and utterly terrifying. It’s different for everyone, I imagine.”
“Is there anything that frightens you, Mr. Argent?” she asked. He gave the question due process. What did most people fear? What had he to fear that he hadn’t already experienced and survived? Starvation, torture, rape, pain, beast or man? “I can’t think of anything,” he answered honestly. Skepticism glimmered up at him for a scant moment before she returned to her work. “Not even death?” Only if he died before tasting her again. Only if he was denied the ecstasy he would find between her thighs before he kicked open the gates of hell to claim its throne.
He had the ridiculous notion to lean over and kiss those tears. To lick the salt from her body and digest it, make it part of himself. To swallow her sadness so he could feel some of his own.
If she would pick one emotion and decide to land upon it for longer than a blink, he’d greatly appreciate it.
We are all monsters sometimes.”
“There.” She sighed, her fingers tightening in his hair. It had been the most erotic word Christopher had ever heard in his life. He dragged his mouth away from hers long enough to explore the curve of her jaw, as he used her little gasps and soft moans as a guide. This must be what religious men felt as they fell to their knees at an altar. This unworthy rapture. This unholy desire. This need for redemption.
Christopher became a pilgrim of her pleasure.
It was certainly surreal to enjoy delicious tea in such an elegant parlor when one’s lover was off killing your child’s father somewhere.
“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Farah asked conspiratorially. “And, despite being a bit phlegmatic, he really is charming at times.” “As charming as a typhus epidemic,” Millie quipped into her teacup. Blackwell’s book seemed to give a strangled snort. “Oh dear.” Farah’s golden brows, a touch more golden than her pale hair, drew together. “Are you cross with him?” “Of course she’s cross with him,” said the book. “He’s an idiot.” “Are you reading, or having this conversation with us?” Farah asked her husband.
“It was men in your position who put me on this path in the first place. I was innocent once. We were innocent.” He gestured to Dorian, who agreed wholeheartedly. “And good. But inside the walls of your cage, we lost the meaning of the word.”
Millie was afraid to lose him, but in this moment she knew she had to forge ahead. “I see you, Christopher Argent. I know who you are,” she soothed, running her hands over his powerful naked back and up the swells of his biceps. “I want you to see me. I want you to know me.”
