Page 31 of Wicked Knight
Just a kiss, a simple little kiss.
Yet the moment I think of kissing him, heat streaks through me like a potent dose of adrenaline.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a heartbeat, wincing at another poor attempt to lie to myself.
Now that a few days have passed and I’m back at Raventhorn, I know there’s no way on earth—no matter how many times I say those words—I’m ever going to believe that mantra. Because it wasn’t just a simple little kiss.
He full-on kissed me.
And the kiss was so much more than a kiss becausehewas kissing me.
If it was just a kiss, I wouldn’t still be thinking about it.
And my lips—and body—wouldn’t still be burning and yearning for more.
More of his kisses.
More of his touch.
More ofhim.
Kissing Dmitri and touching his rock-hard body was like getting the answer to some centuries-old riddle that mystified people for eons.
I can’t count the amount of times I’ve dreamed of him, and I like that. I won’t even try to deny that I’ve been in love with him my whole life. And it looks like I still am.
Kissing him was like breathing new life into my tired soul.
No one would believe me if they heard me speak like that because they think of me as the party girl who’s always the life of the group. But no one knows most of that is an act.
God.What am I going to do?
I reach the wardrobe, open the door, and stupidly shove my hand inside the shelf with the box. The sharp edge scrapes my skin, and I know even before looking at it that I’ve cut myself.
I pull my hand free. Yup, a bead of blood forms on the side of my hand. Great. Just what I need. “Damn it.”
“Hey, are you okay?” Mom pokes her head through the door and looks me over, her eyes narrowing in concern.
I thought she was in the kitchen making lunch. She’ll be heading back home in a few hours and wanted to cook one of our favorite meals before she left.
She escorted me to Raventhorn yesterday. Not because I asked her to but because that’s what she does—be there for me when I need her, and I’m acting like I don’t.
“I’m fine, just a scratch.” I hold up my hand and give her a small grin.
“Let me see that.” She comes in and examines my hand, frowning at the welt that’s formed along the line of the scratch. “Looks like more than a scratch to me.”
“Mom, please. It is just a little scratch. I’m fine.” I laugh it off and grab some tissue from the box on the desk to wipe away the blood.
Mom takes my hand and brushes her thumb over my knuckles. “Yesterday, you burned yourself. I’m almost nervous to leave you.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, and she releases my hand.
I’ve enjoyed her company and support, but I don’t want her to start fussing over me. I fear she’ll see through me and peek inside my head like she always does. If she does, she won’t like what she finds. Me harboring feelings for the son of the man who accused my father of murder.
My lungs tighten at the crude thought. I try to mask my worries with another smile.
“You know I can stay another day or so, if you’d like me to.” She studies my face and searches my eyes as if double-checking I’m okay. “We could go to dinner in the city and maybe see a movie. Or we could hang out here and talk, or do some more decorating.”
She looks around my already beautifully designed room that she got a fleet of Boston’s finest to decorate when I started freshman year. It has a contemporary meets French Provençale design with the ivory wallpaper, vintage bed in the center, and a soft canopy of lavender and cream-colored drapes hanging gracefully over the bed and windows.