Page 75 of Secrets of Avalon
He dips his head, trailing scorching kisses along the column of my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin and sending bolts of pleasure zinging through me. My body curves into him, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on his broad shoulders, desperate to anchor myself against the onslaught of sensation.
"Please," I whimper, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm asking for. I only know that I need more, more of him, more of this delicious fire that's consuming me from the inside out.
With a growl of pure, masculine satisfaction, he claims my lips once more, the kiss a branding and a promise of the pleasure to come.
With a gentle touch, Hawke's fingers slide into my hair, carefully seeking out the delicate pins that hold everything in place. One by one, he removes them, his lips never leaving mine as he works. Each pin that falls away is a small surrender and a step closer to what we both want—to claim each other.
As the last pin comes free, my hair tumbles down in a cascade of waves and tiny braids, spilling over my shoulders down my back. Hawke draws back slightly, his eyes roaming over my face with an adoration that steals my breath.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers combing through my tresses, the sensation sending delicious shudders through my nervous system. "I couldn’t have dreamed this moment to be more perfect.”
He presses feather-light kisses along my hairline, across my brow, on the tip of my nose. Each touch makes my heart swell and my eyes sting with happy tears.
His fingers find the clasp of the heavy gold necklace that rests against my collarbone. With a deft twist, he releases the catch, carefully setting the priceless Stormblood ruby aside.
He trails his lips down the column of my throat, following the path where the necklace had been.
Next, he turns his attention to the earrings. He removes first one, then the other. I’m lighter with each piece that falls away. He’s not just removing the physical trappings of the evening, but the weight of expectations, of the coming duty and responsibilities.
Here, in the sanctuary of his arms, I am simply Melinda - not a princess-to-be, not a savior, but a woman treasured and safe.
Hawke's fingers find the fastenings of my gown. Slowly he begins to unlace the dress, his lips following the path of his hands. He pushes the fabric aside, baring one shoulder to the soft glow of the candlelight. His mouth finds the newly exposed skin, pressing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses that send new sparks of pleasure racing through my body.
I gasp, my head falling back, reveling in the feel of his hands and his mouth on me. He works his way across my collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow at the base of my throat.
He finally pushes the dress off my other shoulder and the golden fabric slithers down my body to pool at my feet. I step out of the dress and stand before him in nothing but a sheer slip. The thin fabric clings to my curves and leaves nothing to the imagination.
Hawke's breath catches, his eyes darkening almost to black in the dimly lit room. His gaze is a physical caress that sets my nerves on fire.
He reaches for me, his hands skimming over the silky fabric, tracing the contours of my body as if he's committing every dip and curve to memory. I arch into his touch, my own hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine. Why does he still have so many clothes on?
Hawke tugs at the laces of his shirt. He yanks the garment over his head in one swift motion, revealing the expanse of his bare chest for the first time. My breath catches in my throat. The candlelight dances across his skin, casting shadows that accentuate the sculpted planes and chiseled muscles. I'm struck silent, my eyes drinking in the sight of him, a statue of a Greek god come to life.
My gaze travels over his body, mapping the scars that tell the stories of his past. A thin, silvery line traces the curve of his collarbone. Another, thicker and more jagged, cuts across his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. I find myself wanting to know the tales behind them all.
Tentatively, I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his skin. I've never touched a man like this before, and a mixture of nerves and excitement thrums through my veins. Hawke remains still, his eyes locked on mine, a silent invitation in their depths. Taking a deep breath, I let my fingertips graze his chest, marveling at the warmth and texture of his skin.
My hands roam over the contours of his body. I trace the lines of his muscles, committing each ridge and valley to memory and he shivers under my touch, his eyes drifting shut, his head falling back. A soft groan escapes his lips.
Hawke's eyes snap wide, the force of his gaze a tangible thing that steals the breath from my lungs. With a low growl, he pulls me flush against him, the heat of his body searing me even through the thin layer of my shift. “Melinda Mayweather, will you be my wife, my mate, my queen? My everything for as long as we both shall live?”
He pauses a moment. “You deserve so much more than this rushed proposal, but I need you to know my intentions before we do this. I need to know you want the same.”
“Yes.” My belly clenches at his words. I want it so much it hurts. “I do. So much.”
His mouth finds mine in a searing kiss, a clash of teeth and tongues that sends a bolt of pure, molten desire straight to my core. I cling to him, my nails raking down his back, desperate to get closer in every way possible.
Hawke's fingers find the hem of my shift. Slowly, torturously, he bunches the material in his fists, dragging it upward. His knuckles graze the sensitive skin of my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Higher and higher he goes, his touch skimming over my hips, my waist, until the fabric is gathered just beneath my breasts.
I break the kiss, my chest heaving. I struggle to catch my breath. I've never been naked with a man before. Never exposed myself so completely, both physically and emotionally. A blush heats my cheeks, and I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide from his intense gaze.
But as I search Hawke's face, I find no judgment, no hesitation. Only reverence, adoration, and a hunger that matches my own. He sees me, all of me, and the acceptance in his eyes gives me strength. Slowly, I raise my arms, allowing him to tug the shift over my head.
The garment falls to the floor and I stand before him. But instead of feeling vulnerable, I feel powerful. Desired. Cherished.
For a moment, he simply stares, his eyes roaming over my body with an intensity that steals my breath. I watch him through lowered lashes, my heart racing. I take in the sight of him. His broad shoulders, the rippling muscles of his chest and abdomen, the way his skin glows in the candlelight—every inch of him is perfection. But it's more than just physical beauty that draws me to him. It's the way he looks at me, as if I'm the most precious thing in the world, as if he can't quite believe that I'm real.
Slowly, reverently, Hawke lowers me to the bed, his own remaining clothing already shed. His body covers mine, his weight a comforting presence, his skin warm and smooth against my own. There's nothing between us now but heat and promise.