She gasped and looked from the deadly stake, pointed toward his chest, to his smirk and those laughing blue eyes. “Sorry?”
“Be careful. That thing could take out an eye.”
“Or a life,” she whispered, releasing the weapon to him. He extracted it from her shaking fingers and set it inside the cabinet. “I’m sorry. It was open a little, and I—well, I did say I was going to snoop.”
“You should be chastised for such daring.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “And I’m of a mind to do that.”
“But I was just…uh…” She sighed and lifted her chin, losing all powers to reason as she fell into the depths of his intimately delving stare.
The man answered her astonishment with a kiss that landed on her mouth as softly as a butterfly. But as their lips joined, the too-gentle pressure demanded they seek one another more forcefully. Pulling her body against his, he claimed her in that moment. His fingers moved along her hip and curled, forcing her closer. His other hand swept through her hair and clutched it aside her cheek. He tasted like the herbs he’d used to season the meal, which mingled with the wine lingering on her tongue. His mouth seared fire against hers, teasing her to match his urgency.
And she did.
Every part of Verity shimmered, seeking, grabbing, wanting this delicious connection to never stop. It was as though she had not been kissed for centuries, and finally, exquisitely, she was being fed the life she had never known she needed.
Rook’s hand swept down her derriere and his fingers traced along the ruffles that hemmed her miniskirt, his fingertips every so often touching the bared skin between skirt and thigh-high stockings.
Verity pressed up higher onto the tips of her toes, clinging to his shirt collar to keep him at her mouth. She needed his breath. Their connection made her feel as powerful as she did when throwing fire. Combustible, that was the word for this embrace. And if she could, she’d melt right into his arms. May he lay her across his vast bed of untold exotic pleasures and continue his exploration with a million more kisses.
Suddenly the kitchen buzzer tinged, and he abruptly pulled away from her. Verity gasped, stepping on her tiptoes to maintain balance at the loss of such utter sensual strength. The kiss had completely discombobulated her in the best way possible.
He bracketed her face with his hands. “Dinner’s ready.”
Screw dinner. Another kiss, please?
Seeming to completely dismiss that he’d just kissed her silly, Rook closed the wardrobe doors, secured the latch, then strode out of the room.
Verity obediently followed him into the kitchen and sat when he pulled out a chair for her. Her body was still in the bedroom, crushed up against his powerful build. Her mouth was at his…
Licking her lips to savor the taste of his chastising kiss, she pressed a palm over her heart. So fast, it rushed toward something she hadn’t thought to ever know. Excitement, adventure, romance. It all sounded deliciously decadent.
Yet he’d walked away from the kiss as if it had meant nothing more to him than, well, peeling away the rind from the lemon as he’d prepared the meal. Perhaps he was not as enamored of their embrace as she had been. Or maybe it had simply been as he’d stated: a punishment for her snooping.
If so, then what other kinds of mischief could she get into that required such admonishment?
Play it cool, Verity. It hasn’t been that long since you’ve been kissed. Why the silly swoon this time? He’s just another man. Take it slow or you’ll end up in another wacky relationship with a stalker.
But Rook wasn’t any other man. They had met for a reason, and she wanted to learn why.
When he offered white wine, she held up her goblet. Its scent was ridiculously strong, and she picked it out, even over the herbs and cooking aromas. “Raspberries?” she guessed.
“Very good. A friend of mine owns a vineyard in the south of France. They plant raspberries and peaches within the vines.”
After a sip, she said, “It’s delicious.”
“You may claim an epicurean mastery of Paris’s macarons, but I challenge anyone to match me at wine.”
“I bow to your sommelier skills. But is wine the way to your heart?”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
“You have your unreadable secrets. I have mine.”
He set a plate of quinoa and vegetables before her. Verity closed her eyes, drawing in the crazy-good scents, until Rook touched her shoulder to sweep her hair back.
Meeting his gaze, they shared a smile that said everything she had wanted that kiss to mean to him.
“This meal won’t be anything to talk of after that kiss,” he said.
So he had been affected by it.
Smiling to herself, she forked in a bite. True, his kiss had been delicious, but the food was nothing to sneeze at. “I’ve only known you a few hours and already you’re spoiling me. If you keep feeding me like this, I may never leave.”
“Is that a promise?” He winked and poured a goblet of wine for himself.
* * *
While Rook loaded the dishwasher, Verity wandered into the living room. She didn’t feel compelled to help. Domesticity was not tops on her list. Admittedly, she spoiled herself with maid and catering services. She could afford it. An immortal witch with a mind to living many centuries compiled a nice portfolio over the years, and a cache of seventeenth-century gold given to her by a former lover who had taken infatuation to new levels was something she would appreciate for centuries to come.
The sudden awareness that Rook was behind her made her bow her head and smile. He was so quiet. Stealthy, like a hunter. But a sexy, cool stealth that disturbed her need to remain cautious around him. She was normally not so quick to jump into a man’s arms, let alone allow him to kiss her, but with Rook all her personal boundary rules seemed ridiculous.
Trust? Certainly not. But trust had nothing to do with lust.
He wanted to touch her? Bring it on. And don’t stop, pretty please.
He raked his fingers up through her hair, clutching a good portion of it, and tugged her head and shoulders back until she bent at the waist. Looking down at her and holding her firmly before him, he traced a finger down her neck and the vee décolletage of her T-shirt, leisurely skimming the mounds of her cleavage. To be held like this—controlled—excited her.
“Your skin is soft.” With a twist of his hand, he righted her to stand straight. His fingers never left her cleavage, and they felt like a cool summer breeze against her warm skin. “Your skin is like the flame you seem to have mastered. I’ve known witches over the years, and most avoid fire.”
“Because it can bring our death.”
He nodded, his jaw tensing. Burning a witch at the stake, or in any other
