“Camille,” he murmured. His eyes were luminous, deeper than the night outside, framed by the sweep of his wet eyelashes. He took her hand in his. With agonizing slowness, he pressed burning kisses along the inside of her wrist. His hair, cool and wet, caressed her skin. “What do you want?”
“You,” she breathed. “I want you.”
There was a sound in the corridor, and both of them froze.
Footsteps, and, under the door, the trembling light of a candle.
“Camille?” Sophie called, urgent. “I heard a noise—are you well?”
Instinctively, Camille pulled her dressing gown closed. Lazare grinned at her, and she had no idea what to do. He had erased her mind with his kisses. Help, she mouthed, but he only bit playfully at her earlobe.
“Yes?” she stammered.
“You’re worrying me—can I come in?”
Teasingly, intoxicatingly, he kissed the hollow of her throat. Any more of this and she would cease to exist. “I’m trying to sleep,” she called out weakly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
A long pause. “If you say so.” Sophie’s shadow disappeared from under the door, and soon the flickering candlelight faded away.
Lazare laughed, and she tried to clamp her hand over his mouth. “Quiet!”
“You were nearly found out!”
“I?” She choked back laughter. “What about you?”
“I don’t count—I’m only something you dreamed, remember?”
“But you’re not, are you?”
He shook his head. His brown eyes were gone to black, his pupils wide with desire. “I’m not a dream.”
“Prove it,” she whispered.
As his body met hers, she tilted her head to meet his mouth. She knew there were no dreams like this, no dreams so alive and full of wanting. It was nothing she had ever felt before, but now it was everything she wanted. Her fingers fumbled at the neck of his shirt, pulled the damp linen over his head. Tentatively, her hands explored the line of his collarbone, dropping to the smooth slope of his chest.
“Mon âme,” he murmured as he slid her dressing gown off, letting it fall to the floor. She pulled at the ribbons on her chemise so that it slipped off her shoulder. “How beautiful you are.” His mouth on her skin scorched, setting her on fire.
Where once had been edges, boundaries, and borders now was ash.
Why had she worried about diverging paths and pretending? In their fierce, suddenly desperate touch was sweet oblivion. Whatever she’d feared stood between them was gone. In this torrent of fire, there was nothing to hold on to except each other.
And outside, the rain rushed down ceaseless until dawn, thrumming its sweet tattoo.
27
In the morning, she woke to Lazare. He lay stretched out on the sofa, lazily toasting a piece of bread over the fire. When she stirred, he smiled devilishly. “I may have frightened the maid,” he said, twirling the poker he’d put the bread on, “for which I am truly sorry. On the other hand, she returned with breakfast for two.”
Camille was famished. She had woken in the gray hours before dawn, while he still slept. The rain had finally stopped, and the world felt remade. Lying on her side, resting her cheek against her arm, she had lain in the half-light, drinking him in. His black hair spilled like ink across the pillow, his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. Under his ear his pulse beat slowly, steadily. His chest rose and fell, and she wondered what it might be like to kiss him while he slept. Would her kiss become a part of his dream, the way the rain had been in hers, last night? Or would he wake?
And what then?
Her breath caught as she remembered the fierce press of their bodies, as if they could eliminate every space between them, the tender but hungry exploration, the feeling that she was entirely herself and yet completely blown apart. What if last night could begin again?
It would be delicious to find out.
Bending, she kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, the one that curled irresistibly when he teased or jested. His eyelashes fluttered, and his lips parted as if he might say something, but he didn’t wake.
Should she kiss him again? It was barely dawn, and he’d traveled so far last night. She would let him sleep. He would be there when she woke. Believing this—not simply hoping for it—had been a new and delicious joy.
A little shyly, she said, “Salut.”
His gaze smoldered. “Getting out of bed wasn’t easy. You were so warm, and I imagined—” He stopped himself. “You were even in my