Текст книги "Love's Sacrifice"
Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre
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Love’s Sacrifice
Georgia Le Carre
This book is specially dedicated to
all those who have loved Lana and Blake.
Smashwords Edition
Editor: http://www.loriheaford.com/
Proofreader: http://nicolarhead.wix.com/proofreadingservices
Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9929969-4-9
You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.
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This is your cup—the cup assigned to you from the beginning.
Nay, my child, I know how much of that dark drink is your own brew.
—Swami Vivekanander
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Epilogue
POV
Synopsis
One
Victoria Jane Montgomery
I wake up in the dark, alone, cold…and restrained: leather belts on my ankles and wrists. My wrist shackles are so tight they are chaffing. I feel groggy and sick and quite frankly scared. I lift my head, look down and see that I am dressed in a hospital gown and robe.
My head throbs relentlessly, but I widen my eyes despite the blinding pain and cast them at the shadows and shapes around me. As my eyes become accustomed to the darkness I see that I am in a room, empty but for me and the bed I am lying in. There are no windows, only a large metal door with a covered peephole.
I listen intently. Not a single sound. Even my own breathing seems noiseless. Then: in the distance I hear the grate of a key in a metal lock. A woman wails down a corridor. The sound echoes eerily. A heavy door slams shut with a clanking sound and the impenetrable silence returns.
I cough. The sound is loud and unnatural in the bare coldness of my surroundings.
They have cut me away, their own daughter, and abandoned me here, in this mad house. Why did I not expect this? Why am I so surprised? Because I’m NOT mad. There is darkness in my head, but my mind is bright and alive. Razor sharp.
‘You’re here for a rest,’ the large, spectacularly ugly nurse said, when two orderlies hauled me into the hospital’s reception area, kicking and screaming. She sounded conciliatory.
As an answer I bit her like a wild animal. Big mistake. She screamed like a banshee, they stuck a needle into my arm, and I lost that argument. My father stood back, staring, disbelief etched on his horrified face.
‘Take me home, please,’ I whispered to him before blackness came to take me. I guess he ignored my plea.
And now, here I am, in this cold functional cell. Angry tears gather in my eyes and flow down my temples and into my hair. The fury rages until it becomes a sickening, powerless sorrow. I wallow in it until a sound inside the room rouses me.
My senses on high alert, I jerk my head towards it. It seems to be coming from the left of me. It is too dark to see anything, but it sounds like the flapping of wings. Bats or birds. Adrenaline pumps through my body. Strapped down, I am easy prey for whatever is in the room with me. For the first time in my life I feel terrified. The temperature in the room drops suddenly and an inexplicable freezing cold descends upon me.
Utterly terrified, I begin to shiver violently.
I scream when my shackles are suddenly and miraculously loosened. Shocked, I pull my shaking limbs out of them and sit up. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear my blood roaring in my ears. For a moment I think my mind is playing tricks on me, but no—light is slowly filtering into the room, diluting the blackness.
My pupils are so widely dilated and my retinas so exposed by the blackness that I have to shield my eyes with my hands. The light is coming from what appears to be another entrance—one I had not noticed before. It is covered by floor length, thick red curtains. I drop my feet to the ground. The floor is ice cold, damp and clammy. I stand slowly. The room reeks of old metal. As if in a trance I walk towards the concealed entrance and draw the curtains back. I stand before antique, etched, leaded and stained glass doors. Through the glass I see a full, blood-red moon glowing in an unrelievedly black sky.
I experience no fear.
I push open the beautiful doors and enter a stone balcony. It is decorated with gothic friezes and gargoyles, and it is totally alien to, totally at odds with the bare, functional room I have been in. It almost feels as if I have stepped back in time or into a different dimension. The stone is freezing cold on my bare feet and the temperature is that of a winter night. My breath frosts in the wintery air, and yet I feel as warm as a sunned cat.
There is a sudden crash of thunder and the black sky splits open. As I watch, bright, shining light pours out of the crack. It turns into the shape of a very large bird that flies down. It lands on the balustrade in front of me and becomes utterly motionless. Its silence and stillness are such that it is deathlike.
I gaze at it, this creature, this presence, with awe. It is the most splendid thing I have ever seen. Brilliantly colored and shimmering, its head is in profile so only one crimson eye is exposed to me. And all of a sudden, with a surge of joy, I understand: I am looking at the all-seeing eye. It is the great one Himself. El! He has taken the form of the phoenix that is on my family’s coat of arms. He has come for me! I have not been deserted.
You are Victoria Jane Montgomery.
His voice reverberates inside my brain, piercing, intrusive and shocking. My hands shoot upward to grip either side of my head as I drop to my knees. I experience no pain as my kneecaps strike the stone floor. Only swallowed and possessed from within.
‘Master,’ I whisper from my prone position.
Your bloodline and heritage are pristine and privileged… A gift.
I turn my awed gaze up to the unblinking ruby stare that has seen it all. The ruby eye becomes darker and darker until it is a black hole that I am traveling inside. Thousands of years of the sublime and the profane open up to me like a blood-sodden flower.
The air leaves my lungs.
And ancient knowledge pours from the great bird like lava from a mountain. With it comes the knowing that this place will not contain me one moment longer than I decree. This is not a place of purgatory, but a sanctuary where I may lay my plans and grow to unimaginable heights. I see now that I am the chosen one. My brother has been and always will be weak. I will be the head of the Montgomery dynasty. I will bring chaos. I have been chosen to do so.
Then the great bird opens its magnificent wings and flies away, and I am back in bed, restrained, my heart racing.
But transformed, illuminated and imaginably powerful.
I smile.
I am one of the chosen ones.
My only sin was to love and love too well. It was a mistake. I see that now. I wasted myself on him. Still, I have learned from it so it was a useful mistake. This place will not be the end of me. Never again will they stick a needle in me. I will affect submissive docility. I will beat them at their own game. I notice that they have cut my elegant nails to the quick. No matter. I will beat them at their own game. I am NOT mad. I don’t belong within these walls. This is only the temporary seat of my power. From here I will destroy the man who tried to destroy me.
Blake Law Barrington—you thought you could put me out like trash, and someone would come along and remove me from your life… Foolish man. I know a secret, a secret so explosive that it will turn to dust the very foundations of the life you have built. I will have my revenge.
With a single, brutal blow I will bring you to your fucking knees.
Two
Lana Barrington
No matter what has happened. No matter what you have done. No matter what you will do. I will always love you. I swear it.
–Defiance, C. J. Redwine
He turns towards me. In the firelight he is impossibly chiseled, his eyes light and piercing, a hint of mystery about the corners of his mouth. We are on the first leg of our honeymoon, in the middle of the desert. Blake hired an old-fashioned camel caravan because he wanted us to mimic the ancient journeys of the silk road.
I stare at his beauty, memorizing it for the days when we will be old, feeble and sitting on a swing waiting for our grandchildren to come around, and they will be many.
‘I want another child,’ I tell him.
He reaches for me, his eyes suddenly dark and unfathomable. ‘Not yet, Lana. We will have them, as many as you desire, boys and girls, but for a little while let me have you and Sorab to myself. I have never been so happy. Just for a year I wish for nothing more than only the three of us. Our little family.’
I smile at him. ‘One year?’
He nods, as hopeful as a child.
I laugh. ‘OK.’
He pours tequila into two glasses. Shakes salt on the sides of our fists. It is strange drinking tequila in the desert. I look up at the night sky. Slow magic. The stars are shining like white-flamed candles in a pitch-black background, and there are so many shooting stars they seem to be raining down on us.
‘Besides,’ he adds. ‘I want you to be able to do everything you ever wanted to, go where you haven’t, see what you haven’t, and experience it all. You will be pregnant when you’re twenty-three, and four, and five, for as many times as you desire.’
‘I only want three,’ I protest with a laugh. And then my voice becomes serious. ‘But I want to adopt a couple, too.’
He raises an enquiring eyebrow.
‘I’ve always wanted to change a child’s life,’ I explain. ‘To take it away from a situation where it could never prosper and give it everything I am able to.’
‘The house is certainly big enough’.
‘Thank you, my darling.’ I lean forward and kiss him chastely on his cheek. My mouth lingers. He moves so it is his mouth on my cheek.
‘The last time,’ he says softly against my cheek, ‘I missed everything. This time I want it all. I want to see your belly grow big with our child, your ankles swell up, and I want to be there when his or her head shows, and you are screaming blue murder. I want to wake up at ungodly hours and watch you feed them.’
‘Stop, you’re putting me off.’
He takes my hand gently. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
The fire crackles. I move back and gaze at the hawk-like noses of the cameleers gathered around another fire a few yards away, to listen to an old man with a narrow, deeply wrinkled face tell stories. His voice is a hoarse whisper. The long sleeves of his gray tunic rise in a sweeping dramatic movement to point at some boulders in the distance. I wonder what tale he is weaving for them.
He strokes his beard, his eyes shining in the light, and the circle of men, squatting on their heels, lean forward eagerly, thrusting their heads out like lizards. I turn toward Blake. In the firelight he is watching me.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘‘When I saw you standing at the edge of the dance floor in your ruined dress, looking so lost and fragile, I felt like someone had stabbed me right in the heart. And yet you were more dignified and beautiful in your disgrace than any well-bred, stiff upper lip royalty.’
I shake my head; the memory is fresh and hurtful. ‘No, I wasn’t brave at all. I wanted to run away. I was so embarrassed. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. All those people gawking at me, some secretly pleased, others pitying. I honestly thought our wedding was totally ruined.’
I press my fingers to his lips. ‘But then you came and caught me up in your eyes and swept me into that dance. And suddenly, it was as if I was in a beautiful dream. I forgot everyone else—no one and nothing mattered, except you and me and our love for each other.’
‘Because no one and nothing matters except you and me and Sorab.’
‘And Billie and Jack,’ I add impishly.
He remains serious. ‘And all our other children when they come along.’
I take his serious tone. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’
He looks away from me, and stares unseeing into the leaping fire close to us. ‘After you left with Billie I went to see her. I was so furious I wanted to kill her. I had to clench my hands into hard fists and hold them tight against my sides when I saw her, but almost instantly, I realized that something was very wrong with her. I had become an obsession. She was mad in a way I had never suspected. She didn’t need to be punched, she needed psychiatric help. So I called her father and he agreed to commit her to an asylum.’ He turns back to face me and looks deeply into my eyes. His voice is strong and edged with some deep emotion. ‘She will never bother you again.’
‘What about when she comes out?’
‘She won’t come out until she is diagnosed as well again. The tests she will have to pass are very rigorous and mean continuous observation over a long period. It will be impossible for her or anyone to fool the panel of psychiatrists. And I will be kept abreast of all her development.’
‘That’s good to know.’ I pause. ‘Blake, how safe is Sorab?’
He frowns. ‘From her?’
‘No, not from her. Just generally.’
‘He is very safe. Why do you ask?’
‘Even the president of America is not so safe that he can’t be assassinated.’
‘The president of America is assassinated if and when his controllers decide he is no longer a good puppet for them. Otherwise, he is impossible to assassinate.’
‘My mother once told me a king is always killed by his courtiers.’
‘That’s true, too. Only they know the weakest spot to strike.’
‘Who are your courtiers?’
‘Why are you so afraid?’
‘Because you are.’
He jerks his head in surprise, but I carry on.
‘I feel your fear all the time. I feel it in the constant surveillance we are subjected to, in your voice, in your body. Who are we being protected from, Blake?’
‘No one. I’m just a very thorough and cautious man. I don’t trust anyone and I would rather be safe than sorry. Now tell me.’ He smiles. ‘Is this the kind of conversation a girl has with her husband on her honeymoon?’
I laugh. It’s a nervous twitter, but it seems enough for him.
‘What happened to the panties with the lacy bits and the new techniques from London, you little minx?’
I stand. ‘Come into my tent in five minutes and I’ll show you.’ Then I turn and walk away, purposely swaying my hips in an exaggerated manner, so the robes swing tantalizingly around my body. At the tent entrance I turn to look at him. He is a silhouette, watching. And, for some reason, tense.
Slightly confused, I enter the tent, and stand for a moment behind the tent flap. I love Blake with all my heart, but his secrets are like a chasm between us. I get that he is trying to protect Sorab and me, but it pains me terribly to know that I have been deemed unsuitable to share his burdens.
For a moment, I close my eyes and give myself a talking to. This is your honeymoon, Lana Barrington. Are you going to spoil it? No, I’m not. I’m going to remember tonight as one of the best times of my life. I open my eyes and look anew at the magic that surrounds me. It is as if we have gone back in time. I note the wood stove, the cheap artificial carpets, the oil burning brass lamps, the antique wind-up gramophone, and the low bed, its orange silk sheets strewn with rose petals: our marriage bed. The smiling boy, Abdul, has done this.
It is a sweet touch.
The illusion is so perfect it is almost impossible to think that another world with Internet access, and automobiles, and TVs, and all manner of modern conveniences, exists. Strange, but I almost prefer this, this uncivilized existence. Meager and brutal, but real and honest.
Perhaps, in an odd sort of way, I have already nearly exhausted the trappings of wealth. I no longer care if my handbag has a Chanel logo on it. In fact, by a strange reversal I see the fake Chanel bag as the intelligent choice. The owners of the fake bags are the smart ones. They have understood a logic that the rest of us have been blinded to by clever marketing. Why pay seven thousand pounds for a bag you can get for twenty-five at the market? Especially since some of the fakes are so good the difference cannot be seen by the naked eye. A great con indeed.
My eyes return to the gramophone and my lips widen with pleasure. Blake remembered. I told him my grandfather had had one similar to this. I walk towards it. It is made of wood and it smells of lemon oil. I stroke the lovingly polished wood. I know exactly how to work it. Beside it there are new needles in a plastic bag. I take one out, and, carefully unscrewing the thumbscrew, insert the flat end of the needle into the hole. Cautiously, I screw it back on, as my grandfather stands over my left shoulder, saying in his gravelly voice, ‘Be very, very careful, Azizam, the thumbscrew can be anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old.’
There is no one to call me Azizam, my dear, anymore.
With the new needle installed, I go through the selection of records beside the machine. Old Persian music. How thoughtful my husband is. I take a record out of its sleeve, dust it with the tip of my sleeve, and place it on the turntable. With a smile of anticipation—this is always the best bit—I turn the crank on the side of the machine until I feel resistance. With the main spring wound, I release the brake lever, and the turntable starts spinning. I lower the soundbox onto the smooth outer rim, gently push it, and watch it slide into the playing groove.
Crackling Persian music fills the tent.
My grandfather smiles as I sink down on some cushions. The air around me shimmers with memories. My mother is still alive. It is Norouz and all the children in the neighborhood are jumping over the fire for good luck. Old Behrouz, the sweet seller, brings sweets in a cloth bag. From his wrinkled mouth flow stories of heroic warriors from times gone by. There are all kinds of delicacies to eat and money to be had from the elders. But the memories are old and faded around the edges. They don’t remain.
I stand, remove my long, thick robes and toss them on the carpet. They land, heavy, weighted with sweat and fine golden sand. I remove the expensive bits of underwear that I came to the desert with, and finding the long transparent blue veil I bought in the covered market, wrap it around my body and tie it over my breasts like a sarong.
There is only a small hand mirror with a carved silver back. I pull it down my body to see what I look like. My flesh looks pale, my nipples are twin peaks, and my belly button is a dark, round shape. I hear a rustle outside and moving to the middle pole drape myself around it.
The tent flap opens.
Three
A cold gust of wind redolent with the smell of spit-roasted mutton scatters goose bumps on my naked flesh and makes the open flames dance. Blake stands stooped at the entrance. His gaze, smoky with alcohol, ignites, and his breath comes out in a hiss. He had not expected such a gift.
Whatever tension had lurked in his eyes while we were out there is no longer. Now they shine like gems in the yellow light cast by the lamps and candles. He doesn’t say anything. Simply comes to within a foot of me, and stares: a hot, slow gaze. He seems different. He seems almost astonished… Maybe I am different too. His eyes meet mine, enchanting me with their magic, filling me with desert lust.
He reaches out a hand towards the veil, but I swirl away, nimble and light as an air sprite, and stretching my hands high over my head, I dance. The pulsating drums move my bare feet as I snake my body around the wailing music. I drag my hands up my thighs, my hips, up to my waist, and higher still, until they reach my breasts. Impulsively I pinch my nipples.
His eyes flare. Heat flushes in my belly. My nipples feel raw and my sex is swollen so thick I feel the lips rub sinuously against each other: maddening me. I look at him sensuously, with half-closed, come-hither eyes.
He responds to my silent call. He moves fast and is suddenly so close by, his deep voice vibrates inside my head. ‘Who owns this glorious creature?’
‘The one who dares…’ I suggest, my voice trailing away wickedly. Like the honey you leave as a trap for the unwary.
‘I dare,’ he whispers.
I pull the veil over my face so only my eyes are visible and, turning from the neck, look up at him. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask saucily.
An intrigued eyebrow lifts. ‘You should come with a warning, a bit like the cigarette manufacturers are forced to have on their packaging: Beware, scintillating to the point of incendiary.’
For some seconds I look at him. Outside miles of nothing, here, let there be swollen heat. I spread my legs and plunge my fingers into my wet folds. The action is primitive, perhaps even obscene, but here we are different animals. I thrust my fingers in and out, my breath becoming more ragged.
He takes off his thick robes and flings them to the floor, his eyes never leaving me. I see the smooth golden skin where his collar falls open. How beautiful is my lover. He pulls at the white shirt-dress. It joins the robe. Naked to the hips he comes forward, sexual energy rising off his glistening muscles like a heat haze. I gaze at his body. So familiar and so dear, and still the air zaps with my desire for it.
He catches my hand in his and brings it to his mouth. A smile curves my lips. I lean forward, my bare breasts brushing his torso as I sway with the music. It is like rubbing a magic lamp. It awakens a genie of dark excitement deep within his body. I see the fever-thirst come into his eyes. I stop smiling.
He spreads his fingers on my hips. They are like flames on my skin. I turn and let my shoulders rub against his chest, and my buttocks brush the hard flesh between his legs. His reaction is intoxicating—he reels me in suddenly so the base of my side is pressed into the rod of hot flesh. My limbs tremble in anticipation. He moves his body against me: long thighs, muscles, sinew, tendon and bones, all melds with me.
In response, I move my buttocks away from his body and slide my hand between us. I palm his hardness and curl my hand possessively around the hard shaft. It responds by twitching and growing harder still.
‘Impressive,’ I whisper.
He chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. ‘The better to fuck you with.’
His hands roam my body, from my belly up to my breasts and down between my legs.
‘Oh yes,’ I gasp, gently stroking the bulge, wanting the brutal force of his thrusts and the agonized sound of my name on his lips as he floods me with hot cum. He bends his head and his mouth scorches mine, hot and hungry, the taste of salt and tequila, a sparkling shock. My eyelids flutter closed. We are ravenous creatures in the desert. He lifts his head, breath coming fast and shallow.
‘If you don’t get inside me soon I’m going to melt.’
As if on cue the music changes. The air fills with drums.
He wraps his thick and sinewy arms around me and, sweeping me off my feet, swirls me around so fast I am a dizzy blue mist landing on the orange silk bed. My weight crushes the flower petals. In dying they gasp out their sweetest scents. They mix with the oily scent of the candles.
He kneels down. His scent is different: he is as fragrant as the hot sand. He catches my eyes, smiles faintly and, parting my trembling thighs, sinks his fingers into me. My flesh flowers around the heat of his fingers. Grasping his hand, I hold his fingers deep inside me. I close my eyes and savor the delicious sensation of my muscles jerking and quivering around him, as they anticipate release.
My hands fall away as his fingers curl inside me and begin to stroke slowly. He knows exactly where to rub to make me explode.
‘God! I’m so crazy about you,’ he rasps, as his mouth descends on a nipple. Hot and rough. It burns me. He sucks the other deep in his mouth. Pleasure shoots straight into my sex, making more blood rush to it, swelling it further, until it…hurts. I whimper.
He stops and looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes.
‘Don’t stop,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘Take me as if I am a captive you bought in a market.’
His smile drips with dominance and lust. ‘What kind of a captive would you be?’
‘What if I am an enchanted slave who is spellbound to her owner by dark magical cravings she can’t resist?’
‘A bewitched slave who can’t say no. My, my… Must be my lucky day.’
I moan as his fingers pierce me hard and fast.
‘I love watching you helpless and writhing at the end of my hand.’
I arch helplessly.
‘And I own every inch of this purchase.’
‘Every inch,’ I croak. I grab his silken hair and pull his mouth down.
‘So you want to be taken as a market slave, hmm?’ His voice is dangerously soft.
‘Yes,’ I say, still only frustratingly impaled on his fingers.
Hands of steel flip me over so suddenly I yelp with surprise. With my head buried in the cushions I hear the sounds of his clothes falling away. My hips are grabbed and jerked upwards and held up tilted at an angle. When his cock slams into me I am still hazily aware of the men outside, so I scream into the pillow.
‘This is what you wanted?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this?’ He plunges in so punishingly hard I break out in a sweat.
‘Yes,’ I growl, like an animal possessed.
He goes at it, wild. Our mating is crazed and brutal. I bite the pillow to keep from crying out too loud. He grasps my hair and pulls away the pillow.
‘Fuck you,’ I snarl.
And he slams again into me. He pulls my ass cheeks apart and pushes deeper in. His dick feels hot, burning hot. I am already so sore and battered, my body is beginning to quiver, but just as I think I can bear it no more, I become aware that he is almost cresting. I know him so well I can feel it come into his body. I push my flesh against his groin and squeeze my muscles tightly together, and he groans and calls my name as he spurts and jerks into me.
For a few seconds neither of us moves. Holding me close against his body, he lays me back down on the bed, and rests on top of me, his shaft still buried deep inside me. I love the feeling of his weight on me, while he is half supported by his elbows. His lips settle on the pulse at the side of my neck. His tongue darts out to lick it. Then he puts his mouth on it and sucks it. A whimper escapes. He leaves the pulse and trails upward along the side of my neck to my ear. He nibbles the lobe.
‘Don’t stop,’ I moan. My voice sounds almost anguished.
He pulls out of me and, rising to his hands and knees, turns me over. He straddles my thighs, holding my hands high over my head, and looks at my exposed body. His eyes rove over my body jealously. Then he lowers his head in a kiss so soft and sweet that it brings tears to my eyes.
‘Blake?’
‘Don’t speak. I think I need to have my way with you,’ he purrs.
My breath catches at the raw heat in his eyes, even though I am not sure I can take another pounding quite so soon. ‘I thought you just did,’ I say softly.
He smiles wolfishly. ‘See what happens when you pretend to be a little slave girl?’
‘Did I say I couldn’t take another round?’
‘That’s true.’
He slides off me. ‘Lift your legs up, knees straight.’
‘Why?’
‘Humor me.’
He grabs my thighs and opens my legs into a V. And then he takes his wolfish grin between my legs and devours me greedily. Literally consumes me. It just goes on and on and on until the climax comes with such shattering impact that it feels as if the back of my head has been blown off. When it is over I am sobbing with the intensity of the experience.
He gathers me in his arms until my heart rate slows, my breathing returns to normal and the crazy heartbeat stops.
‘I think I could grow used to being a captive slave,’ I say, encircling his neck and pulling his mouth down to mine. It feels so good to have his naked body over mine. I kiss him. He tastes of me.
‘You really are the sexiest sheik that ever walked a desert.’ My voice sounds soft and fluttery.
A corner of his mouth lifts. ‘And you, my love, are the most beautiful slave that ever graced any tent.’
‘What if I buy you in at the market tomorrow?’
‘Honestly, can’t wait,’ he says, and his voice is so rich and deep my breath catches in my throat. For the rest of my life, no matter how long I live, I know I’ll never forget this moment. The feel of his skin on mine, the handsome curve of his lips, the lock of hair falling forward and the look in his eyes. God, I love this man so much I would fight for him. Never again will I run away.
‘Do you think the men outside heard us?’ I murmur contentedly.
‘If they didn’t hear us before they will now,’ he says, and, throwing a long, muscular arm gleaming with a sheen of sweat out, reaches for the jar of spreadable chocolate.
I giggle…but not for long.
