Page 81 of Reign
That gets another broken laugh out of him, and his hands come up over mine, holding them there against his face. “You say the sweetest things at the strangest moments.”
“You inspire me.”
“Dangerous.”
“You started this.”
“I believe that’s your argument for everything.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He smiles then, small and wrecked and so beautiful it hurts. I kiss him before the expression can disappear, gentle this time, no rush to it, just my mouth on his like I’m sealing something in place. He answers with all the trembling gratitude of a man who has been starving quietly for too long and doesn’t quite trust the meal yet.
When we part, the clock on the bedside table has marched farther forward than I like. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I.
This is the problem with leaving once you’ve let yourself believe in staying. Every second becomes an argument. Every look is another excuse to delay.
“Nikolaj—”
“No.” I shake my head once, smile already threatening because the reluctance is written so clearly over his face it almost makes me drunk with it. “If you stay another hour, I’m not letting you out of this room at all, and while that has appeal, I’d rather not start our reunion with an international incident.”
The corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “You’re very bossy for a man who was talking about buying islands ten minutes ago.”
“I can multitask.”
He lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and leans into my hand for one tiny second before catching himself. “I don’t want to go.”
The honesty of the admission nearly kills me.
“I know.” I smooth my thumb over the line of his jaw once. “Which is why you’re going now, while I still have the strength to send you.”
His eyes search mine, looking for loopholes. For mercy. For a reason to stay that doesn’t make us both weaker. I give him none, because that’s what love looks like when it has to survive reality.
When he’s done getting dressed, I walk him toward the door by the hand because apparently I’ve decided subtlety can go fuck itself where he’s concerned, and because I want the feel of him with me for as many steps as I can steal before the corridor and the world and all the titles come rushing back in.
He follows, but only physically. Emotionally, he’s dragging enough to make the point, and I know it. Every time I take a step, he takes one half a beat later, like a man obeying under protest.
At the door, I turn to him and find that he’s looking at me with that same terrible softness again, all the old arrogance burnt down into something more dangerous because it’s honest.
“You really know how to ruin a man before breakfast,” he murmurs.
I smile and reach for the handle, but he catches my wrist. The touch stops me—of course it does.
Then he steals the kiss. Hard enough to make the point, soft enough to hurt. He kisses me like a thief and a king and the loveof my life all at once, and when he pulls back, I’m the one half dazed now.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
I close my eyes and bask in those words, feeling the truth in them. I should let him go then. Instead, I lean in and say the first sweet thing that comes to mind. Loving him openly has made me reckless in entirely new ways.
“You still look best with my mouth on you.”
He pulls back, and his pupils flare. “Nikolaj.”
“Go home before I keep you, My King.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It wasn’t.”
