My nose crinkled because he was right. “I suppose you really should take it as a compliment.”
“I do,” he told me simply. “You don’t mess me around with bullshit anymore. That’s all charm is when it boils down to it. BS.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“At first, I thought you were weird, and now I still do, but I’d prefer you like this than to constantly have you licking my ass.”
I snorted. “And there was me thinking you’d be into that.” It was the first innuendo we’d shared since his attack, so I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. A part of me waited with bated breath, but he just chuckled, turned into me, and after a second’s hesitation, leaned closer and pressed his lips to my jaw.
“I definitely wouldn’t complain.”
Because I knew why he’d hesitated, and everything inside me rejected it, I reached up, cupped his chin and held him in place as I bound our lips together.
It felt so right, so fucking perfect to be in my home country, to stand outside the house that had been a source of a lot of misery throughout my life, and to feel, for the first time in England, happy.
And that happiness was founded in Micah.
Dangerous, to be sure, but better than the cold fish I was usually, no?
As he parted his lips to let me in, a growl escaped me, clicking almost at the base of my throat as I tasted him for the first time in too long. I tipped my head to the side and allowed myself to explore him, to revel in his flavor because it might only have been three weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.
His hand came up to cup the back of my head, and his fingers dug into my hair, tugging at the dark brown strands to the point of pain. When his hips jerked into me, I felt his erection, but that was when he pulled back, panting. His lips red, his face flushed, but his eyes were wild—and not with arousal.
“It’s okay,” I hushed him, gently reaching up and pressing the tip of my finger to his bottom lip. “There’s no need to rush things.”
The wildness faded some, not all of it disappearing but a good chunk of it. His breathing slowed, and the flush whispered away, as he gulped, “Why are you so patient with me?”
My brows soared. “You’re asking me that? When you’re patient with me and the shit I do? Or don’t as the case may be.”
He blinked. “That isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it?” I pursed my lips which were still tingling from the contact with his. I dropped my gaze to stare at them, feeling everything inside me clench down with regret that he wasn’t ready even as I totally accepted it.
That was how I knew what I felt for Micah was different than anything I’d ever known before.
I had patience. I had interest. It was twined together with want, strengthened with desire, but more importantly, there was—
Christ.
My heart was in on this, and there was no going back.
I pushed my forehead against his, and whispered, “We’ll go at your pace, Micah. Always at your pace.”
He swallowed. “I-It’s difficult.”
“Of course it is. She took your arousal and used it against you.” I reached up and cupped the back of his neck, holding him to me. “We’ll get there.”
His eyes fluttered to a close. “When you say that, I almost believe you.”
“You should.” My mouth quirked up in a smirk. “I’m not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.”
“You didn’t make a promise,” he pointed out.
I simply cocked a brow. “Didn’t I?”
Twenty-Nine
Micah
The house was insane, mostly because it was so old. I had a feeling that it was furnished with items of furniture that hadn’t been moved in centuries, which was both cool and creepy at the same time.
I couldn’t imagine never having to buy new things, just because you already had several lifetimes’ worth of furniture in storage. Generation after generation had stocked up on period pieces, making each room worth a small fortune.
Money was something I’d been raised with, so it wasn’t the casual affluence that took me aback. Just the shocking disregard for history.
Every room was full of it, and yet, it was treated cavalierly.
We ate on dishes that had tiny brown creases in the porcelain, the gilt edges as rich as ever on, what appeared to be, a pristine Limoges collection. The utensils were heavy silver, and they were stamped with a hallmark that was beyond illegible, rubbed smooth over time and thousands of meals.
We slept on a bed that had a canopy, which had sheltered only God knew how many Viscounts from the chill winter—because, even though it was early September, it was surprisingly cold here.
Beside every fireplace, there was an antique guard. Even the utensils to stoke the fires and clear away the ashes appeared antique.
The rugs were ancient, rich with color and patterns, that told me these were genuine Persian. Back when Persia had been a country.
The windows had odd openings, ones Devlin had called a ‘sash.’ They were a bitch to open, a bitch to close, and every time, you almost lost your fingertips because once you managed to get it to move, gravity had them closing with a speed that’d make a guillotine appear slow.
From the mugs we took coffee in, the armchairs that were stuffed with horse hair, and the walls that were so loaded down with paintings, I wasn’t sure if there was wallpaper or paint behind them, I was so overwhelmed with history that I was enchanted.
I loved it here.
Loved leaving the house to head to the small, gated garden. A fence made up of iron ‘spikes’ painted black surrounded it, and the key to get into it was as ancient as the crescent. Inside, there were benches and flowerbeds and a small pond, and I liked sitting out here in the late afternoon, just before it grew cold, after I’d gone for a run around equally ancient streets.
Which was what I was doing now.
I’d had no desire to go running in New York in the days that led to our flight, but here? I wanted to explore the area.
There was an atmosphere I’d never experienced before, and it made me happy. Happy when, I felt like the past three weeks had been one long round of disconcerting worry.
It seemed incredible to me that I’d only known Devlin for around five weeks now, that I was here because of a chance meeting that should never have led to this. But I was grateful.
Whether I’d met Devlin or not, Rhode would always have attacked me, and in the aftermath, I’d have been alone.
All alone.
No one to care if I ate, if I felt like hell. No one to watch over me. To hold me as I slept.
Things I’d never have expected from a man like him—one who couldn’t express his feelings, who was more at ease in sharing his emotions with his PA rather than the person he felt them for.
I knew, instinctively, he was ill-at-ease with affection and public displays of it, yet, upon arriving here two days ago, he’d kissed me out on the street, in front of everyone. And he’d tried to hug me. He’d only stopped because, I knew, he wasn’t sure if that was something men did.
Was it strange that I questioned that too?
I’d thought nothing of hugging Chelsea, even if I hadn’t wanted to fuck her. Had thought nothing of pressing my head to her lap if we were sitting outside in the yard on a picnic blanket. We’d held hands, and she’d usually gone shopping at the mall with her fingers slipped into the back pocket of my jeans.