Page 12 of Painted Truths

Both of us are breathing hard, inhaling each other’s breaths like two people starved of oxygen, and I can’t quite distinguish whether it’s Henry or me who’s shaking slightly.

Perhaps it’s both.

Once his breathing is more controlled, a beautiful smile graces his handsome features. He blinks those unusual green eyes once.

Twice.

“You even taste like a peach.”

I can’t stop a small answering smile from dancing across my lips.

His hands rake along every newly awakened, vibrating nerve ending. I hesitantly move my hands from where they are clasped behind his neck to inch the hem of his deceivingly plain black, no doubt designer t-shirt upwards to place my slightly trembling hands on his torso.

His abdomen is silky smooth with a smattering of coarse hair, his abs rock hard and well defined.

His body quakes under my tentative palms as he bends forward, dropping a smattering of butterfly kisses along my neck and jawline until he comes to my lips, where he stops, whispering so softly I strain to hear him even in the room’s silence.

“Kissing is entirely underrated.”

He returns his hand to the back of my neck. It feels right; his hand is now where it’s meant to be.

Home.

With his palm right at the top of my spine, he exerts a little pressure to pull my head forward so that our brows are resting on one another.

Then he leans in to brush his lips to mine before setting me down on the floor between himself and the wall. I feel so small in his presence. There’s got to be at least a foot between our heights.

Bending at the knees, he wraps my hand in his much bigger one and looks me straight in the eye, the intensity of his gaze bringing butterflies to life underneath my breastbone.

“Come with me, okay?”

Smiling almost shyly, which is ridiculous after what has just passed between us, I nod, and he smiles broadly in reply.

Lacing our fingers together, we exit the Powder Room and go downstairs, where we enter through another door with a sign pointing up that reads, Roof Terrace.

Upon stepping through the door, I pause momentarily, the enormity of what we’ve just done hitting me like a freight train, until Henry turns questioning eyes to find mine. His exquisite gaze allays my doubts as rapidly as they surfaced so I smile softly before nodding my consent to move forward once more.

We climb several flights of wrought-iron stairs before emerging into the coolness of an early spring night, the lights of London blinking around us and the sounds of the hustle and bustle below us a muted din.

Henry leads me to a seat covered with cushions and blankets surrounded by loops of tiny twinkling lights with a firepit crackling away in the centre. The entire thing looks as though it’s been placed here for secret interludes.

“This is beautiful.”

Without missing a beat, Henry’s husky voice washes over me.

“You’re beautiful.”

Turning to face him, I’m taken aback by the sincerity blazing in his eyes. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’m utterly unable to stop myself from blushing profusely at his ardency. I’m unused to such blatant flattery, or such intense eye contact. A blazing intensity that both floors me and bolsters me in equal measure, and I find myself desperate to bask in the depths of his gaze for as long as I can.

I whisper a thank you as I tear my eyes from his to look down at my hands resting on my lap.

“Have I earned your name yet, Peach?”

Switching on my newfound sass, courtesy of devil Jo, I meet his eyes with my chin lifted. “Not yet, Henry.”

“Ooh, you really are intent on making me work for it. I don’t know whether to be proud or pissed.”

We laugh a little—our eyes never leaving the other’s as the conversation flows between us, alleviating the previous tension.