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“Hmmm, well, I wouldn’t exactly say that.”
“Wicked wench,” he muttered before fully possessing me with his mouth, smothering anything else I might say. My body arched for him, a soft moan escaping.
“Jude,” I murmured when he let me breathe, “you have nothing to worry about.” I pulled his head down, angling so that I could be the one to nibble at his jaw and the soft patch of skin by his ear. He drew in a sharp breath between his teeth.
“Genevieve…Genevieve, what are you doing to me?”
He sounded desperate, like a man on the brink. His hand clutched at my hip. Even through this damn comforter, I felt his warm hand squeezing that spot that made me tighten in low, wonderfully feminine places.
The well of emotion in his voice threatened to ignite us both into flames. I was playing with fire, and hell if I didn’t want to get burned, but the consequences of giving in to the heat of Jude could result in Danté having possession of me.
Never.I needed to take the reins. I was pushing Jude too far.
“You like to say my name,” I said, combing my fingers softly through the back of his hair. He said my name often, and sometimes his voice lilted like a reverent plea. I’d often wondered about this but never had the courage to ask. Until now. “Why is that?”
Breathing labored, he fell onto his back. I snuggled closer but not too close, wrapping one arm across his waist. He urged me up so that his left arm pillowed my head. When his chest finally rose and fell in a steady rhythm reflecting in-control Jude, he spoke.
“Did you know that Genevieve is the name of the patron saint of Paris?”
“No,” I murmured encouragingly. Jude rarely spoke of his past, especially his life in France. I understood this as a small gift.
“When Genevieve was seven years old, Saint Germanus, the bishop of Auxerre, prophesied her future greatness. She promised to become consecrated to God, and so she did on that very day and again when she was fifteen years old. In 451, when Attila the Hun threatened to overtake the city of Paris, promising to pillage and kill all those inside, young Genevieve implored the inhabitants not to abandon their homes but to pray and have faith that God would save them. I was there, in the crowd, and she seemed to understand something that no one else could.”
“And what was that?”
“That good will prevail if you maintain faith despite the odds. Paris was my city to protect at the time as a Dominus Daemonum, so I had no plans to leave regardless. But she, a young girl with unwavering faith shining in her eyes, put me to shame. Many people were furious at her outright blind faith, as they called it. Some wanted to stone her. Others fled in fear during the night.”
“I imagine you put a stop to the stoning,” I said, wrapping my arm more tightly around him.
“I did,” was his curt reply, but I heard the smile in his voice.
“And did Attila the Hun pillage the city?”
“No. She led a group out to the ramparts of the city before daybreak. I was there too, watching. In the face of the enemy, armed with spears and bloodlust, she led the faithful in prayer as the morning light swept over them. That night, Attila led his army south to Orleans, and the city was saved.”
“Was she, was she a Vessel?”
“No. She wasn’t Flamma of any kind. She was simply a woman.”
Why would he tell me this story?
“So, you like my name because it reminds you of the nun who saved Paris?”
The words sounded flippant, but I didn’t mean them to. A slow rumble of laughter vibrated beneath my cheek where it lay on his chest.
“I like your name for many reasons.” His hand played with strands of my hair that spilled down his arm pillowing my head. “Because it reminds me of a woman who had faith in the impossible when all signs threatened bloody death. Because it is French, a name that speaks to me in my native tongue. But most importantly,” he said, shifting and lifting my chin. Our eyes met. He hesitated but finally dove ahead and said what seemed perched on the tip of his tongue anyway. “Because it is your name, the name of the woman who shines a light in my darkness; the woman who will save me from my worst enemy, despair; the woman who currently holds my jaded heart in her very lovely hands.”
He went still. His pulse sped up, pounding in his breast beneath my hands. He was afraid. Of me, and how I would respond to such an open declaration. Trusting me with this vulnerable part of him made something precious open inside. I propped myself on my elbow, weaving my fingers through his available hand, pulling our clasped hands to my lips, grazing a kiss on his knuckles.
“Well,” I whispered softly, “I promise to be very, very careful. I’ve always been known to have capable hands.”
“I bet you have,” he replied at the somewhat teasing statement, pulling me closer.
But the kiss that followed wasn’t filled with heated passion or bridled lust. Rather, it was one of adoration and blooming hope for the both of us, the bonds weaving in and around our hearts pulling a little bit tighter.
25
“But I just don’t know! I mean, the Jimmy Choos make me taller and make my calves lookamazing. But then I’ll be able to dance better if I wear these. Whaddya think? Stop reading that magazine and pay attention to me!”
