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“You are gorgeous. Brilliant. A truly good woman. And if given the opportunity, I could make you completely forget Callum in a matter of minutes. But I want more than mere minutes. I want hours and days.”
It’s hard to be hugged when you’re lying on a table, trying to hold a thin gown over your otherwise naked body while a man behind a curtain is pulling Spanish royal porcelain from your derrière.
“I don’t need you mansplaining,” I say, though I totally wouldn’t have known how to make this flush without him taking the time to teach me earlier. “I’d never dare mansplain to you, Angel. Talking is simply my way of trying to feel useful. You’re doing all the hard work. I’m not even sure you need me. Someone else could just as easily hold this door.
Can women win? Sometimes, it doesn’t seem as though we can. We’re tarts, or we’re frigid. Weak or overbearing.
“Seraf,” he whispers. “You kissed me.” “I’m sorry.” “Why? Why on earth would you feel the need to apologize?” “Because I shouldn’t have, and it was so … I’m so ...” “Gloriously perfect,” he says, and my mouth snaps shut.
Rafe presses another closemouthed kiss to my lips, then another, and I can sense him closing this door. It’s the last thing I want. Forget the ball. Forget everything. I’d like to move into this alcove permanently and spend the rest of my days just exploring Rafe’s mouth with mine.
I need a minute.” He needs a minute? I need a lifetime—not to recover, but I think I need a lifetime with him.
“My list is one word. And it’s not a character trait. It’s a name.”
😭😍
“Serafina.” My full name gusts from his lips like a plea and a declaration.
