Page 19 of Silken Chains
Victor steps in close, too close, but I don’t back away.
My brain’s yelling “stranger danger,” but my body’s got its own ideas, leaning toward his warmth. As he covers me with his coat, I flinch, not from cold but from the sudden closeness. Surprisingly, I don’t mind the proximity.
My mind’s racing, a hamster wheel of “oh-no-he-didn’ts” and “oh-yes-he-dids.”
“Come on,” he says, voice all velvet and smoke. “Let me drive you home,” he offers. It’s oddly tender for a guy who looks like he could snap a neck without breaking a sweat.
He’s offering to take me home?
There’s a twinge in my chest.
Disappointment?
Seriously?
What was I hoping for? What? Did I want him to sweep me off to some grand adventure instead?
Those big hands of his are careful as they brush away a curl from my cheek, and I’m suddenly a statue, only I’m feeling everything.
He tugs the coat tighter, and I’m wrapped up in a cloud of his scent. It’s like walking into a wall of man—pure, undiluted Victor. It’s nothing I’ve known before, not with David, not with anyone. Suddenly, he’s not just a guy; he’s the guy, and every breath I take is laced with him.
He’s not just handsome now; he’s something out of a freaking romance novel. And then there’s his face inches from mine, lips promising all sorts of sin. His breath doesn’t reek. Not like David’s always did, that made my stomach flip—in a bad way.
Stay back, my brain warns. But who’s listening?
I’m done being the good girl who gets walked all over.
I squeeze my legs together, a pathetic defense. It’s been too damn long since… well, anything.
I look up and our eyes meet, and there’s this dance in his stormy gaze, a flicker that suggests he’s seeing more than I’m showing. His pupils dilate, and that damn tongue flicks across his lip. My brain’s screaming at me, but my body’s been lonely way too long.
I want him.
Fuck. I want him.
We’re so close I can almost taste his breath. Our lips are barely an inch apart. I’m not breathing.
Screw it.
My head tilts up instinctively, and that’s it—I kiss him.
It’s reckless, it’s insane.
But it feels like the first real thing I’ve done in ages.
Chapter 8
Laura
HE CAN kiss. God, can he kiss.
It’s like he’s read the manual on my mouth, written it, and then set it on fire. Maybe it’s the whiskey’s fault, lending him talents, but as his tongue tangles with mine, I know no bourbon’s that good.
His hand’s firm on my jaw, guiding me into a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. His lips are soft, but the rest of him is all hard muscle. He’s got me in a grip that says he’s not letting go anytime soon, like I’m the oasis he’s been dying to find in his personal desert.
I feel his hand locked on my back, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt. Maybe I should. He’s holding me like I’m the answer to questions I’m not sure I want to ask.
Despite the cold logic in my brain, my body’s melting into his. I hate that I’ve craved this—his taste, the pressure of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. I tiptoe up, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
