Page 41 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘They are everything to me.’ Illarion reached for his canvas bag, the one that carried his travelling desk.

‘Are they why you left Kuban? Klara said the four of you couldn’t stand to be separated.’ Dove ventured tentatively. So many of their conversations had focused on her. They’d spent very little time talking about him. Perhaps today that would change.

‘In a way, yes.’ Illarion seemed ill at ease with the subject as if it made him nervous. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ He pulled a small travelling case of art supplies from his bag and gave it to her. ‘I thought you might want to draw some memories of today.’

He was changing the subject. For now, Dove let him. She took the case and ran a hand over the smooth surface, aware of his eyes on hers, aware of the closeness of him, his body folded cross-legged across from her on the rug, mere inches between them. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Her voice was bit choked. Even if she didn’t draw anything today, she would remember this outing every time she looked at this. ‘It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Truly.’ So much more thoughtful than flowers or bonbons. This gift was about her, it had been picked out especially for her. The realisation brought her full circle back to the question that had started the day.

Dove set the box aside. ‘Why are you doing this? This picnic, this box, meeting your friends.’ Giving me a glimpse of your soul. What he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell her about Kuban, he was showing her the best way he could.

‘What am I doing, Dove?’ The back of his hand skimmed the curve of her cheek. His voice was low and private for her alone.

She gathered her courage. In her gut, she knew what he was doing. But to say it out loud would take bravery. If she was wrong, she would feel foolish. Would he laugh at her? No, Illarion was not like that. She let her eyes meet his. ‘You are seducing me.’

He did not laugh. His gaze did not waver. His hand drifted to the column of her throat. ‘And if I am?’ He didn’t deny it.

Her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat to speak. ‘I would have to ask myself what you want.’ His mouth brushed hers in the gentlest of kisses.

‘That should be obvious, Dove.’ His hands worked the pins free in her hair, his voice at her ear. ‘I want you.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wanted, yearned, desired her in so many ways and on so many levels—levels that had been ratcheted to a delicious tension throughout the afternoon, until desire had become nothing short of craving. Illarion nipped at her ear, his teeth sinking a tiny bite into the tender skin. ‘I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped down from the landau.’ She’d taken his breath away, the sun in her platinum hair, the cool beauty of her in the white-linen carriage ensemble, blue forget-me-nots embroidered delicately, brightly at the hem, a reminder that she was his Snegurochka come to life, the winter Princess walking amongst spring. When she’d slipped her hand into his, the possessive thrill of ‘mine’ had coursed through him. That had merely been the start of the wanting. Teaching her archery had done nothing to ease his growing need. Watching her with his friends; listening to their stories, eating their food, her eyes bright with interest, had been intoxicating. Mere wanting had become craving.

‘Why me, Illarion?’ She framed his face between her hands, her eyes questioning, yet full of that quicksilver desire he loved—loved knowing he put it there, that it was there for him, because of him, and it was there for the first time. He was the only one who’d conjured it for her. Dove wanted him, she was hungry, too, but she resisted, part of her uncertain why he would want her.

‘Because you have brought me to life.’ Illarion kissed her mouth, bearing her back to the cushions. What he wanted to do required more than kneeling allowed. ‘I would do the same for you, if you would allow it.’ God, he hoped she’d allow it. He was ravening for her, for her little gasps of delight when he touched her, for the quicksilver desire in her eyes when he kissed her. And yet, he must curb his desire, must not scare her away with the force of his want. He wanted to show her the possibilities of pleasure. More than that, the wolf in him cried out, he wanted her for himself. He wanted to drown himself in her so that his guilt might be washed away, his nightmares might be cast out, so that he might write again, fully and without fear, as he used to. If he could bury himself in her, he could be free from his plagues.

---