Page 107 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“Myself,” he said.

Tension pulsed in the silence that followed.

“Do you hate me for how I’ve treated you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Do you?”

His presence was too warm, too distracting. “I don’t hate you.”

“What if I loved you?”

My breath caught. I drowned in his gaze. “Do you?”

“I asked what if I did?”

I pressed my palms to my stomach, unsure of what he was getting at. What did he want me to say? Was he asking for my permission?

“You tell me,” I said.

His eyes darted between mine and then his hand slid to the back of my head. His fingers knotted in my hair, and he lowered his face to mine. He matched his forehead to mine, squeezing his eyes shut. His other arm tightened around me, keeping me close, and his body pealed with effervescent energy, as though he’d been wanting to do this for far too long.

I thrilled at the embrace. He was breaking me apart and putting me back together all at once.

“I love you, Rosabel,” he said gruffly, “and I hope you’ll forgive me for what may come because of it. But I can’t fight it anymore. I don’t want to anymore.”

“Then don’t,” I said, thriving on the need seeping from him, echoing it with my own.

He lingered, gauging me. Tension strung between us, and desire thrummed along with it, beating the air like wings. I reached for him, fisting my hand at the back of his hair and pulling his face back to me.

“Kiss me, Duncan. I want you to.”

He surrendered. I felt his body both cave in and amp up at once as backed me up against the wall and his mouth claimed mine. His kiss surged, hot and filled with desperation I couldn’t understand and could only try to match.

Every touch seared and yet made me want more. His kiss felt purging somehow, like everything he’d been suppressing for who knew how long was finally being let free.

And I basked in that freedom. I drank in every taste, matching it with my own.

His kiss slowed and took on a different tempo. His hands roved, skimming along my arms, my waist, trailing up to cradle my jaw.

It was as though he wanted to explore every inch of me, and when he skimmed them down my hips and guided me closer, lips still scaling mine, I dug my fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him.

He was unraveling me one seam at a time. He was stitching me back together.

His fingers trailed down my arms, catching my fingers in his. “These hands.”

Gaze sultry, he brought my fingers to his mouth, planting kisses along my wrist and the base of my palms. He closed in, trailing those kisses along my shoulders, my collarbones, my throat.

“This neck.”

He took his time, lingering at the space just below my ear, making my lashes flutter. Cradling my face like I was breakable, he placed a tender kiss over each of my eyes.

“These eyes that don’t miss a thing.”

He kissed my brows. My forehead. My hairline, pausing to inhale deeply and drink me in.

“And this mouth. Don’t even get me started on this mouth.”

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