Page 34 of The Hellion and the Captain
Rhys mirrored her position, bringing them closer together. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of grass and exertion and something uniquelyhimfilling her senses. “Far from it,” he murmured, his gaze drifting down to her lips before returning to meet her eyes. “Your determination, your spirit, your skill.” He shrugged. “Try not to let it swell your head.”
Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Despite his teasing words, how he looked at her sent shivers down her spine, and she didn’t think she was imagining the delicious tension building between them. “Rhys,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek. “There are so many reasons I should keep myself away from you. Your father is an earl, for one. That should be reason enough to scare me away.”
“My mother wasn’t noble.”
“I know, but she was at least from a respectable family. I come from nothing.”
“Which makes the fact that you have made such an incredible life for yourself that much more admirable.”
He dropped his hand as he snorted and turned his gaze away.
“I have created opportunities for myself, sure. But my life is far from incredible.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I am alone. I work in the bank, play football a few times a week, and that’s it.”
“I am sure that is not due to lack of feminine interest.”
He smirked. “Are you jealous?”
“Of whom?”
He sighed. “There is no one, not really. There has been interest, but I have never found someone who… fit.”
“No?” she said, lifting a brow, wondering if it could ever be possible that she might be that woman. But then why was he pushing her away?
“If anything were to happen between us, Emmaline,” he said, reading her thoughts, “it would make things difficult when we were together as part of the team. When you are Emmett. I would be watching you on the field. Making sure you were safe and uninjured. How would it look if I spent all my time defending my teammate?”
“It would make you a good captain.”
“No,” he said swiftly. “It would make me a terrible captain, because it would mean I was putting my own concerns ahead of the team.”
“But?” she said, hearing it at the end of his sentence, even if he hadn’t voiced it.
“But I find myself unable to resist you, Emmaline Whitmore. No matter how much I tell myself I should.”
Rhys was still staring at her, eyes dark and intent, as if memorizing every line of her face in the dying lavender light. The stretch of silence between them vibrated like a drawn bowstring. Then, all at once, he closed the distance.
At first it was almost tentative—a brush of his lips against hers, the barest whisper of a question. But Emmaline had been waiting for that moment for what felt like eternity, and she answered without hesitation. She leaned into his kiss, parting her lips to him, her hand reaching up instinctively to find the nape of his neck. Her fingers tangled in the dampcurls at his hairline, pulling him closer, deepening the contact.
Rhys groaned—an involuntary, guttural sound that resonated in her chest as much as his own. The world around them retreated, the grass and the dusk and the cries of distant birds lost to the roaring in her ears. His arm came around her waist, strong enough to remind her of her own smallness, careful enough that she felt safe inside it. He pressed her back into the grass, never breaking the kiss, their mouths fitting more perfectly than either could have imagined.
She could taste the salt of sweat on his upper lip, could feel the growing urgency in his hands as he cupped her cheek, the calluses rough and tender at once. Still, for as ravenous as the kiss became—with his tongue parting her lips and hers responding in kind—there was a startling gentleness in every motion. He touched her as if she was made of something rare and irreplaceable.
Her other hand—she was only dimly aware of it—clutched at his shirtfront, wrinkling the maroon and cream cotton into a fist. She was drunk on him, on the scent of grass and earth and the raw, masculine note that lingered between his jaw and shoulder. She wanted more, needed more, and the hunger of it was like nothing she had ever experienced.
Rhys shifted, rolling to brace his weight on one elbow so he did not crush her. Their bodies pressed together along their entire length. She felt each rapid rise and fall of his chest, the pounding of his heart a wild echo of her own. Her legs, still trembling from their exertion, tangled with his beneath the worn wool of her stockings.
For an endless, perfect instant, nothing existed but the two of them and the slow burn of their kiss, the shudder of their lungs, the impossible fact that they were finally—finally—touching without pretense or restraint. The sky above was a sweep of indigo bruised with the last glowing pink, and thefirst star of evening burned overhead as witness to their collision.
Rhys broke the kiss first, though his reluctance was palpable. He rested his forehead against hers, noses brushing, breath mingling in the cooling air. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, holding her as if he feared she might vanish if he let go.
Emmaline forced herself to open her eyes, meeting his stormy gaze at close range. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed, but there was something wounded and uncertain beneath the surface.
Her own heart thudded against her ribs, loud enough she wondered if he could hear it.
