Sarani nodded and bit back a scream when he dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth to her skin. Sending her an apologetic look, he blew a warm stream of air on her hands again and repeated the process. The second time hurt less, but not by much.
The next few times his breath gusted on her skin, however, she felt the tingle of it in her chest. The sight of his head bent over her was doing strange things to her equilibrium. His distinctive masculine scent wafted to her, and all she wanted to do was breathe him in. Lean into him. Obviously, it was a moment of weakness because she was in pain.
Memory leached into the present with scattered images of a different Rhystan, a younger Rhystan, head bent over her hands that had been decorated with mehndi in the Mughal tradition by one of her handmaidens. He’d kissed each of her red-stained fingers and the dotted sphere at the center of each palm when she’d explained that the stain had been made from the ground leaves of a plant.
“What is it for?” he had whispered.
“Blessings for luck, joy, and beauty.”
His easy smile had been full of wicked promise. “I believe a man makes his own luck, and you already have the last one, so it shall be my earnest pledge to bring you as much joy as possible, Princess.”
One of her handmaidens had piped up. “Also for marriage and fertility, sahib.”
Sarani’s blush had nearly matched the color of the dye on her hands, but Rhystan had only smiled a secret smile and continued kissing her fingertips. Until he’d approached her in her chambers that fateful night, she’d been hopeful of his intentions and a future between them. Marriage. Maybe even children someday.
But then duty had intervened and destiny had conspired to throw them apart. Only to hurl them back together. The symbolism of the current moment was not lost on her. Not that he was flirting or kissing her fingers. Even now, the memory of his lips on her skin was so fresh that a rash of gooseflesh broke out on her arms.
Huffing a shallow breath, she almost snatched her hand away.
“Does that hurt?” he asked, glancing up.
Sarani forced herself not to give away her roiling emotions or the lie that left her lips. “Some.”
Reaching for more clean linen strips, he added some salve from a jar and expertly bandaged her palms. “There. Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she whispered.
Rhystan stood upright but made no move to step away, instead caging her with his arms on either side of her hips on the desk. Her newly bound and dressed palms sat cradled in her lap, a puny barrier to the tension that was unspooling between them. Had he been thinking about the last time he’d held her hands as well? Nothing showed in his expression—no softening in those hard, inscrutable eyes.
But still he stared.
Their breaths loud in the silence, the duke studied her face in wordless fascination while she did the same. Relearning him. Remapping his features. Taking in the maturity of his stern bristled jaw and the dissolute curve of his mouth. Oh, that mouth… It had known hers intimately. Tasted her skin, sipped at her hands, her neck, the slope of her cleavage.
With a blush, Sarani wrenched her eyes away to trace his strong, bold nose, the arch of his cheekbones, and those darkened, storm-hued irises. Silky blond-brown hair streaked gold by the sun framed his cheeks and curled into his brow, and her injured hands ached to sweep it away.
Her tongue darted out to lick dry lips, and his stare returned there. Within a heartbeat, the tension humming between them spiked and ignited, spreading like wildfire over spilled oil. Rhystan’s sharpened gaze turned hot and desirous, scorching her, making her breasts tighten and lust settle between her thighs. Heavens, she wanted to be consumed. She wanted to burn.
Sarani didn’t know if it was out of gratitude or desire or madness. She didn’t care. She was hurt, scared, and she wanted comfort. She wanted him.
Shoving to the points of her toes, she collided her lips with his.
Nine
The scent of jasmine burned like incense through Rhystan’s senses.
Her lips. Her soft, lush, wet mouth. The subject of a thousand erotic fantasies. Breaking him apart like a hammer to glass. Sweetness and sin. Darkness and desire. Virtue and vice wound indecently together, addling his brain and hardening his body in equal measure. The divergent combination had always been his undoing—the wellspring of his strength and the secret to his ruin. It had always been her.
He’d made himself forget.
But the moment Sarani’s lips touched his, five years of buried memory descended upon him like a hurricane. Five years of wanting. Of raw, unmitigated need.
Rhystan’s hands wrapped around her, one at her nape and the other at her waist. They were greedy, too…desperate to remember the feel of her, the flare of her hip, the softness of her throat, the silken skeins of her inky hair. His fingers clutched and caressed, holding her close and desperate to take what she offered.
One kiss wouldn’t hurt.
And yet one kiss could wreck him unconscionably.
Because he didn’t want to just kiss her mouth, he wanted to kiss her everywhere. From the bend of her elbow, to the curve of her breast, to her stomach, her thighs, all of her.
Her teeth grazed his lower lip and sensation blasted through him, a groan rumbling in his chest. She tasted of heated spice, whisky, and pure lust. A part of him knew he should pull away, save himself from the destruction that would surely follow in the wake of this, but he couldn’t. When that sweet, bold tongue crept past his lips to touch his, Rhystan stopped fighting and gave in. For this kiss, he’d take his chances with ruin.
With certain devastation.
Angling her head, he opened his mouth on hers, eager to reconquer lost territory and take charge. Thrusting into her, sucking, nipping, and then soothing. Letting her know that all wasn’t forgiven. Reminding her that all wasn’t quite lost to memory. Not one to stand by idly, Sarani put her injured hands awkwardly around him, a ragged moan escaping her parted lips. He took; she gave. He came undone; she brought him back together.
Their kiss wasn’t gentle, but she submitted to his rough claim with equal hunger, willingly, receiving him as though he’d never left. Kissing him as though he’d never become a stranger. As if he weren’t the hated enemy. As though she were still his.
Moments, or an eternity, passed, and they stayed joined at the lips, sharing heartbeats and breath, reluctant to relinquish the connection. The kiss was less frantic now, light nudges and licks over bruised, swollen lips. Violence had given way to something tender, infinitely sweeter.
And exceedingly more dangerous.
Anger, Rhystan was familiar with. He’d honed it, held it close for years, let it pummel him and shape him into who he’d become. But this…this feeling of intimacy, of fragile undone yearning, shook him to the core. Threatened the hardened armor of who he was. And that he could not allow. Fuck. Fuck.