Series: Charmaine Pauls
Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I can’t help but notice her small curves under the fabric. The memory of her shape, from when I held her between my palms in the hallway last night, rushes back to me, and for a moment, it drowns out all other thoughts. The aphrodisiac has long since worked itself out of my system, but desire pulses back to life in my body, hardening me painfully.
My voice is gruff. “Turn around if you want me to fasten that dress.”
I could do it without touching her, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She steps closer and turns around, offering me the milky expanse of her naked back. The urge to touch her there—and in other places—is unbearable, almost uncontrollable. It’s only with many cycles of practiced willpower that I grip the laces and pull the edges of the dress together, lingering longer than necessary when my knuckles accidentally brush over her skin.
The goosebumps that run down her arms gladden me.
She’s not unaffected. My touch arouses her. I can smell it. I can hear it in the quickening of her heartbeat and see it in the soft fluttering of the vein that throbs in the side of her neck.
She pulls away and twirls around to stare at me with a confused expression. She’s wondering about this effect I have on her. She’s asking herself why her body comes alive beneath my palms. But she’s also denying it, fighting hard to ignore the truth.
“I haven’t finished,” I say, letting my gaze play over her lovely features.
She swallows audibly as she moves her hands behind her back and says, “I can manage the rest,” while deftly tying the laces.
I wait patiently, allowing her to finish.
When she drops her arms at her sides, I grab the basket on my way to the door.
“Come, Elsie.”
I don’t wait to see if she follows. If I linger another moment, I’m going to trap her beneath my weight, spread her legs, and spill my seed inside her in the very bed where she’ll conceive my children.
The thought is so tempting that I walk faster lest I act on the alluring idea.
Elsie falls into step beside me, running to keep up. “Where are you taking me?”
I slow my stride, mindful of her shorter legs. “To one of my favorite places.”
We pass through the Great Hall and, when I’ve parted the waterfall, onto the bridge. I take the stairs leading to the hill, holding her elbow in a firm grip to make sure she doesn’t slip.
When we reach the bottom, she turns to take in the palace, and her jaw drops. I understand her amazement. The sight can be overwhelming. The palace is built into a cone-shaped mountain that stands alone, the cliff walls reaching into the sky. Open archways and paned windows with balconies run down the sides, creating an illusion of gaping mouths and blinking eyes. We’ve turned the existing caverns into rooms and, with time, added new ones by dissolving the rock.
At the top, the rockface is green with luscious ferns and moss. Water that pushes up from an underground tunnel running through the center of the mountain erupts from the top and rushes in a powerful waterfall over the side and in front of the Great Hall.
“That’s pretty impressive.” She points at the windows. “Are those all the bedrooms?”
“Mostly. Some of the rooms are the royals’ quarters. Others serve as meeting rooms. The banquet hall and the kitchen, as well as the staff rooms, are at the back.”
Taking her hand, I lead her down the hill on the other side of the sea toward the lake. Her palm is warm and small in mine. The touch is a practicality, ensuring she doesn’t trip or fall, but the contact warms my chest in a way I’ve never felt. It’s like a soothing balm on a cut.
Little by little, I relax until the brutal emotions that tore through me mere moments ago are safely tucked away. I point out the shrubs and flowers as we go, telling her their names. It’s enjoyable. Peaceful.
The realization startles me. From the day my awareness of her stopped beating in my chest, from the dreadful day I believed she was dead, I’d never been at peace.
“Wow,” she says when the flat surface of the lake comes into view. “This is so pretty.”
Red, yellow, and purple cone ears grow in clusters between the succulent grass, each sticky petal curled like a tongue ready to catch any insects flying by. It does make a striking picture with the blue backdrop of the water. The air is clean here, free from the smell of cooking fires and grilling meat. Instead, it’s warm and humid, perfumed with the salty scent of the grass and the sweet odor of the carnivorous flowers. For once, the whispers are quiet, and the only sound is the soft crackling of the grass as the fat blades reach for the sun.