Read Online His Princess in the Making by Melissa James - Free Book Online Page B

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    The unspoken resonance quivered into her and shimmered outward, until he heard the silent music inside her. He moved another inch closer, and a half-inch, until the material of her dress moved in soft-satin friction against his shirt. A gossamer cobweb of touch.
    She turned her face until her mouth was near his ear, almost afraid to break the enchantment holding them both. But soon, too soon, the music would end and real life would intrude and shatter this lovely, spun-glass bubble. “Who are you?”
    He turned his face to hers, as delicate as the movement of the dance. “You know who I am.”
    She shook her head, the tiny movement brushing her skin against his, cheek to cheek; a dreamy lassitude stole over her.
    “You know me. I’m the man who has done anything, everything, for you. For you alone. Always for you.” Slowly, with a sensuality she’d never known, he dipped her back from the waist, holding her hips against his. “You’re so lovely,” he whispered in her ear. “A silver-and-golden angel, your hair shimmering in the light. The prettiest woman in the room, and I want you so much I’m hurting with it.”
    She shivered; her hand, at his shoulder, slid round to his neck. She laid it there, but one finger moved by itself to find his hair in a tiny fingertip caress. “No,” she whispered back, afraid. “You don’t want me.”
    “I can’t think about anything but this, but you.” His hand, at her waist, moved: delicate, butterfly touches she felt burnthrough her dress to her skin. She gasped and swayed against him.
    “Giulia.” His voice was rough, commanding, taut. “Look at me.”
    Slow and dreamy, she pulled back, still half-afraid, the other half a strange mix of wonder and confidence. She looked up at him and saw the stars behind his face. He’d danced her out onto a balcony, and her starved heart sang, a night-whisper only he could hear.
    His eyes blazed into her soul. His mouth made her ache.
    “Those big, sleepy eyes, so beautiful, are telling me how much you want me. I drown in them every time I see you. Every time you’ve looked at me like this in the past eight weeks, you’ve made me so hard it hurts.”
    If he’d treated her like a child for too long, he was making up for it now. The words sent a thrill ripping through her body. And his mouth—oh, his mouth—so close in the autumn darkness…
    Where was she? Who was she? This was a new world, where she danced in marble halls and on balconies under the stars, she wore silk and satin and a tiara, and she almost felt pretty enough for him. This night, this moment, duty and bloodlines didn’t matter, only he and she existed…
    A new world, where he finally cradled her hip-to-hip like a lover, and every pore and cell of her thrilled to the hardness of him.
    With thrumming intent, he brought her up and she met him, face to face, mouth to mouth. “You’re the only one who knows me. I’m the man who slept beside you when you needed me, who learned to dance because you wanted it.”
    “That’s—that’s what brothers do,” she murmured. Another finger joined the first, tips glorying in the feel of his hair against them, like hot silk.
    “Do they? Did Charlie?” he whispered back. His hand moved round to her back and pulled her in closer, a delicious millimetre or two, in a semblance of dancing that brushed his body against hers.
    “Oh.” She blinked, tilted her head, and a smile grew and grew. “No.”
    “Because he didn’t yearn for the chance to hold you like this for a few hours every week,” he breathed near her mouth, so close. “I did. I still do.”
    “Oh.” Unbearable brightness flooded her heart, her awakening body. “You did?” Her thumb found the skin beneath his collar and caressed it, exquisitely intimate.
    “I did. I do.” His eyes closed as he dipped her—a prelude, a promise—and brought her back. “Every week I hoped like hell you’d touch me like you just did.”
    I wanted to; oh, how I