Forty Nine

He reached out a hand, and when she didn‟t move he curved fingers around her forearm slowly, as if afraid she‟d dart away.

He drew her toward him, and his eyes slid shut as he inhaled. "Cinnamon and wild spice." One hand reached up and curled into her hair. "There was a woman last night, at the game." She froze in his arms. "Blonde hair, lithe, willing."

Eyes caressed her face. "But the eyes were wrong, the color, the shape. Her scent."

"Did you—" She swallowed. "Did you kiss her?" She couldn‟t ask if he‟d done more.

"No, I couldn‟t." His thumb ran over her bottom lip. "Her lips were completely wrong. How could I?"

Her breath caught as his eyes held hers. "Oh." And something inside her, some devil, prompted her to add, "And mine?"

"Perfect."