Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,70
mean. Do you know,” she said, smoothing her hands over the silk of his dressing robe, “I have never seen your face?”
“Then we’re even.”
“I care about you, Nash.”
He felt his heart tightening with discomfort. It had been a long time since anyone had said something like that to him. His throat felt like he had swallowed a pound of sand. “I care about you.”
“I know.” She stroked his back. “I want to be with you. All of you. I want to see your face. I want to see the man I’m giving myself to.”
He shook his head. “You see me better than most people already. I’d rather not disgust you with the ruin of my left eye.”
“Nothing about you can disgust me,” she said. “Here.” She took his hand and then lay back. Gently, she placed his hand on her cheek. “You want to see my face? See it with your hands.”
He hesitated, knowing if he did this, she would want to see him as well. But he couldn’t resist touching her. He wanted to really see her. He dragged his fingers lightly over her cheeks, feeling the fine bones underneath. “Delicate,” he murmured. He traced her sharp little chin. “Stubborn,” he pointed out. His fingertip moved to her soft, perfectly shaped lips. “Lush,” he said.
He felt her mouth curve in a smile. He moved up, lightly tweaking her straight nose and then stroking the soft lashes of her eyes and the slight arch of her brows. “So beautiful.”
“I think your fingers deceive you,” she said.
“Never.”
She had a smooth high, forehead, and her hair was incredibly soft when he delved into it. Soft and straight, like a waterfall as it cascaded over his hands.
“Your hair is down.”
“I’d wear it down all the time if I could. I hate putting it up.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he teased.
“I’m not a proper lady,” she said, her voice holding a hint of a warning.
“I had no idea.” He grinned, thinking back to the first time he’d met her, when she’d been singing “Bonny Black Hare” at the top of her lungs. “Proper ladies have never interested me. I can only sip tea and talk about the weather for so long before I fall asleep.”
“And what sort of lady manages to keep you awake?”
“The sort who sings bawdy songs and asks too many questions and kisses me until my toes curl.”
“I made your toes curl?” she asked.
“I can’t remember.” He dipped to kiss her again. “Let me refresh my memory.” He kissed her slowly and deeply, and she returned the kiss for a long, blissful moment. His entire body tingled, and his toes curled as he settled his weight against her.
Pru ended the kiss and pulled away. “Nash, if you’re not ready for this, I can go back to my room. I don’t want to push you”
Bloody hell. This was the sort of thing he should be saying to her. He should tell her to go back to her chamber. Rowden was right. This was dangerous, and he did not need any more trouble in his life.
But he needed Pru, and she needed this to mean more than a quick tumble in the dark. Being with her meant more to him than a perfunctory release, but he didn’t know how to give her what she wanted. “Don’t leave,” he said. “I’m trying.”
“You’re not ready,” she said. “I understand.”
“I’m ready.” He unclenched his jaw and tried to say it again without sounding like he was in pain. “I am ready.” Hell, was he ever ready. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. At being vulnerable. I’ve spent most of my life hiding behind walls and columns, only stepping out to take a shot. I try to avoid exposure, not embrace it.”
“I’m not the enemy,” she said.
No, the enemy was inside him. It was a voice in his head, telling him he would never be good enough. That no one would ever want him. “The whole world is the enemy,” he said, his voice low.
“Then we stand together against it,” she answered, her voice also low. “If anyone wants to hurt you, I’ll fight for you. They will have to drag me away in chains before I watch you go to an asylum.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the ferocity in her voice. No one would ever accuse her of disloyalty. He swallowed and sat back on the bed. “Go ahead and light the lamp,” he said.