Page 36 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Nigel stared down at her open-mouthed for a long, terrible, glorious eternity of a moment.

Then he lunged forward, caught her face between his hands, and pulled her lips roughly into his. He tried to be gentle, wanted to be gentle. But he couldn’t. The urgency, the need was too great, and he took her hungrily, his mouth both ravenous and ravishing. It wasn’t graceful, was barely even romantic. It was far too brutal for romance.

And yet, he felt a surge of pure energy ripple from her body to his, vibrations ringing from the very core of her soul.

Distantly, he heard the thud of her carpetbag hitting the ground. Then her fingers reached up, clutching hold of his forearms. Holding on like he was her last hope. Nigel drew back with a strangled cry in his throat and pressed his forehead against hers, still clutching her cheeks. His fingers tangled in her loose curls. He could not bear to look at her, could not bear to open his eyes. He leaned against her, breathing hard, feeling theshape of her lips just beneath his. His mouth moved as though to speak, but no words would come.

A small cooing sound sang from her throat. Luna tilted her face up, and her lips found his once more. She angled her head slightly, finding a new slant which allowed for a much softer melding, and he fell into that kiss, drinking deep. His hands slipped from her face and around to the back of her neck, ran down her spine then back up to her shoulders. Touching as much of her as he could at one time, pressing her closer, closer. Bending her backwards even as her arms wrapped around his neck, clinging for dear life. Oh gods! She tasted of honeysuckle sweetness, intoxicating his every sense. And when he growled, her voice answered in a trilling sort of whimper, a primal duet, awakening dark and dangerous things in his soul.

He turned his head, slanting his mouth deliciously, first in one position then another, pulling and plying. And when she parted her lips in invitation, he dared slip his tongue inside to dance with hers. She moaned in response, her knees buckling. He knew if his arms did not hold her so fast, she would crumple at his feet. But her hands pressed hard against the back of his neck and head, her answering kisses almost frantic in their need for greater contact.

Now the floodgates were opened. There was no stopping this deluge. He would drown in the swell of raw passion spilling from the very depths of his heart. But something must be spoken first, something must be acknowledged.

Though it almost killed him to do so, Nigel drew his head away. His hands moved from her back to her elbows, gripping hard, his forearms straining as he held her upright. Panting raggedly, his eyes sought hers. Her eyelashes fluttered, parted, and she stared up at him, dreamy and dazed as she struggled to focus on his face.

“I love you,” Nigel rasped.

The words were rough, almost harsh. An agonized confession which had waited far too long to be acknowledged out loud.

“I love you!” he repeated, more desperately the second time. Then, with a huff of air that was somewhere between a laugh and strangled sob, he gasped, “Luna, my dearest, you are my very heart and soul, and I—”

A terrible sound ripped from her bruised lips. To Nigel’s horror, he watched a sheen of tears spark like silver in her eyes, spilling out onto her cheeks. He shook his head, staring, uncertain what he saw, uncertain how to interpret it, how to understand.

Then she leaned forward, caught his lips with hers again. A soft, delicate brush, like rose petals. He tasted her sweetness but tasted salt as well. When she pulled back, he tried to follow her, his mouth chasing hers. But she had found her footing now. She retreated, wrenching hard enough to break his grasp on her elbows. She continued to back away, out from under the awning, her gaze fixed on his. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

She looked . . . frightened?

No.Terrified.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grimm!” she cried. The next instant, she snatched up her carpetbag, turned, and fled. Right out into the empty road, her footsteps loud in the stillness of that dark, cold night.

“Miss Talbot?” Nigel called after her. His voice echoed up and down Addle Street. He took a few frantic steps, the urge to pursue hot in his veins. But why had she looked at him like that? Why was she so afraid? Had he scared her? Was it his fault? Was she . . . ? Had he . . . ? Could they . . . ?

“Luna!”he shouted. His voice reverberated against brick buildings and pavement.

But she made the turn onto Nettleton, out of sight. Leaving him standing alone in the moonlight, beneath the yellow shop sign.

Her breath short and sharp, her feet stumbling, Luna fled as fast as she could into the cold night, propelled purely by adrenaline. She made the turn onto Nettleton, hastened on up to Foxglove Lane, and didn’t pause until she’d made the corner of Chimeway and Quirklyn Court.

There, at last, she collapsed against a streetlamp, panting hard. Air escaped her lungs in pale, white streams, entirely incongruous with the heat roiling in her veins.

She could still feel the pressure of his mouth on hers.

She could still feel the firm grasp of his hands, the strong lines of his body. The crushing intensity of his passion unleashed.

“Oh!” Luna moaned and pressed her forehead against the cold metal of the lamppost. Tears streamed down her cheeks, freezing even as they dripped from her chin. Her body shook, like she was going into shock. Perhaps she was. Perhaps the shock of finally,finallyacknowledging what had been building between the two of them all this while was simply too much for her already stressed-out system.

Gripping the lamppost, Luna fought to keep her trembling knees from giving out. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t melt down, not here. Not now. She had to run. Far and fast. Before it was too late. For him. For her. For the world.

“Oh, Green Mother!” she hissed through clenched teeth and hit her forehead softly against the iron post. “Oh, why did you stop? Why did you turn back? You were out! You were away!”

But the moment she’d crossed the threshold of The Arcane Bouquet onto Addle Street, it was like a chain attached to her heart jerked her to a halt. The idea of leaving him—of her last sight of him being the back of his head, of her last words to him being spoken into that dreadful silence—she simply couldn’t. She should. But she couldn’t.

So, like the fool she was, she’d turned around, halfway determined to open the door, to march back to the counter, and demand that he tell her a proper goodbye.

Only the door had yanked open before she could even reach for the latch.

And there he was.