I knew that it had plumped up to a wild nimbus around my head. He ran his hands through the strands and the delicateness of it made me shiver.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said, talking to himself more than me, it seemed. “The color of it. So rich. Your eyes.” His hands moved from my hair to my neck, his fingertips stroking, so soft that the touch was barely felt, to the tender spot underneath my eyes and to the bridge of my nose. “The death of me. I accepted my fate that night out in the snow.”
A trembling breath left my mouth. It was impossible not to get caught up in his stare when he softened his sharp edges for me. Not for the first time, I felt the power of his eyes. I had never seen a man as beautiful—even that word seemed lacking somehow—as him.
He was the kind of perfect that made women stutter and stare, but he didn’t seem to care that he was, which made him even more attractive. But those eyes took him from dangerous to lethal. If the rest of him served as lure, those were the snares.
“This should go without saying, but here we are. Life can be cruel, Scarlett. People even crueler. Friends will lie to you, cheat you, steal the penny from your pocket after you just gave them your last dime. The world is rough enough.
“Don’t give something that can’t even be stolen. Consent. That’s what you gave last night. You’re a beautiful woman, too beautiful, talented, and smart, which means life is going to be harder for you. And therefore me. You keep your control, you keep life on your own terms.”
“‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ There’s a quote for you to always remember.” I grinned.
“That Snoopy is a genius.” He returned the grin. When he teased me, it felt rare, like a massive diamond falling from the sky, right into a pauper’s lap.
“No,” I laughed. “Eleanor Roosevelt.”
He stood, taking my hands with him until he had to break our connection. I sighed; a wistful sound. This elicited an even broader grin.
He moved toward the bathroom, removing his shirt as he went.
Oh God. A popping noise came from my mouth when it fell open. My skin felt as thin as paper, and my cheeks rushed with blood hotter than a fire, but my eyes were magnetized to wherever he moved. His skin was smooth, the perfect sun-kissed color, and every muscle flexed in a way that made a pulse between my legs throb. The deep V carved into his stomach gave new meaning to sex lines.
The higher power that had put him together had to love women, as Violet had said. She also said that he was the type of man that made clothing optional. And…he was the kind of man that made sweating mandatory. I liked the idea of all these things with that man.
He threw the shirt over his shoulder, turning to dig in his bag. The muscles in his back were broad and powerful.
He had a gladiator’s body and the personality to match. There was no doubt in my mind that this man would stand up to lions. He seemed to have the heart of one.
The ribbon tattoo on his arm was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It fit him as though it belonged since birth. A mark. Mine. On his skin. The thought made my heart expand and ache. It seemed to dissolve into my bloodstream and infect my entire body.
“Your eyes are wicked, Ballerina Girl,” he said, and I blinked, realizing that he had to be talking to me. I had to fight the urge to look behind me, to make sure he wasn’t speaking to someone else.
“Méchant,” I whispered. Wicked, in French. Somehow the word seemed better suited to him than me.
He licked his lips. I licked mine. His distinctly male scent percolated through the air, and I inhaled it, deep inside of my lungs.
“I know what you need better than you do,” he said, his tone even, but his eyes spoke a different language.
No doubt, my mind screamed, but not a word came from my mouth.
“Those eyes,” he repeated, our stares lingering, then he shook his head. “Food’s on the table. Be ready when I get out of the shower.”
“Where are we going?” I swayed, before I was able to sit up straight. “Do today’s activities include sweating?”