Page 55 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Vulnerability of this kind was strong, Grey thought. He could never have confessed to such a thing, to the horrific, mortifying desire to simply be loved. In admitting that, she was admitting to needing others—another thing he might not have confessed. Not with any ease.

Still, he had to know.

“I wouldn’t ask you to be anything other than what you are,” he managed. “But you need to know, Farah. You need to know what you deserve, and it seems that I’m the fool who has been tasked with telling you.”

“Fine!” She spread her arms wide in exasperation. “If it’s so important, tell me what I deserve.”

Grey stood, determination intermingling with fire in his blood. “You deserve someone who will worship you. Someone who will think only of you, who will run themselves ragged waiting for your wedding night.”

“I—”

“You deserve to experience that at least once.”

She let out a stuttering breath, the skin visible to him flushed. “It’s not for me, Grey.”

“Well,” he said, stepping toward her, “it bloody well should be.”

In the beat that followed, Grey was presented with two options. He could bid her good night, or he could kiss her. In the back of his mind, he knew what kissing her would mean. It wouldn’t mean good night. It would lead directly to his bed, where he’d lay her down and—

No.

He wouldn’t move a muscle until she did. The choice was hers—it would always be hers.

They stood motionless for what felt like an age, breath coming in short, the pink of her skin deepening. Something like realization crossed her beautiful features and she moved, a tiny tilt of her head toward his, her lips once again parted.

Grey was not a praying man, but he was struck with the sudden compulsion to fall to his knees in thanks. He bent toward her, pausing when the tips of their noses brushed, his senses overwhelmed by the clean grassy scent of her.

“You can kiss me,” she whispered. “I want you to kiss me. Please.”

Grey closed his eyes, relief and desire flooding his veins. Gently, carefully, he closed the space between them, pressing his mouth against hers. And damn him, it felt right. She reached up, her hands coming around his bare neck as she pressed herself against him. He placed one hand against the small of her back, taking a fistful of silk. The other was tangled in her golden curls, knocking her feathery horns off her head and onto the floor. Need ricocheted through him as he moved to kiss her jaw, her cheek, the delicate column of her neck, encouraged by her soft gasps.

“I worship you,” he rasped, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Or even think about what they meant. “You are all I think about.”

He’d told her one more thing, that the man she deserved would run himself ragged waiting for their wedding night. But he couldn’t say that, couldn’t even entertain the thought that she would ever picture him as the romantic counterpart in that specific scenario.

But the truth was that he’d been running himself ragged waiting for this kiss, for the sensation of her body against his. For all his resistance, nothing he had ever done in his cursed life had ever felt so perfect.

“I think about you, too,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I think about you all the time. I wish I knew why.”

He tipped her chin up. “What do you want, Farah?”

“Want?”

“Not in the grand scheme of things.” God knew he couldn’t ask her that. “Tonight. What do you want?”

“I want to stay here,” she said. “With you.”

He wasn’t about to patronize her by asking if she knew what that meant. She knew—that he was sure of.

Instead, he asked, “Are you certain?”

She nodded.

You can be what she deserves.

He wasn’t sure. He’d spent the entire time they’d known each other reminding himself that he was not, in fact, for her. But now, without any warning, his thoughts had changed their course. Desire meant they couldn’t be trusted. The one thing he could trust was that he could show her what she deserved.

He picked her up, her arms looping around his neck as he cradled her against him.