Read Online Shadow's Edge by J. T. Geissinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. T. Geissinger
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leaned forward on instinct, catching the subtle, feminine perfume of her skin, watching the flush on her cheeks spread down to her neck, her chest.
“I’ve never...it’s...”
She swallowed again and turned to look at him, wonder and reverence evident in every feature of her face. The guarded tension was gone, all the reticence, the quiet melancholy. In its place was amazement, delight, exhilaration. Joy.
He suddenly found it very hard to breathe through the steel band that tightened around his chest.
“It’s magnificent,” she breathed. “After all these years—after all this time it should be faded, it should be...” She shook her head, blinking. “But it’s
perfect
.”
“Yes,” he murmured, admiring the way the candlelight glowed amber and honey against her hair. Pinned half up, half not, tumbling to her waist, she looked as if she’d just rolled from some very warm bed. “It is. Just at its peak now, I would say. It may even have another ten years ahead of it.”
She set the glass on the table with precise, exaggerated care, then slid it back toward him. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “That was incredible. And very—” She hesitated and swallowed, raised her eyes to his. “Very
non
-pathetic.” A tiny, wry smile twisted her lips.
Without moving his gaze from her face, he reached for the glass and let his fingers settle over hers, the barest friction between their skin, the slightest pressure possible.
“You haven’t answered my question.” His voice came out just as quiet as before, but now it was shaded somber, almost tense. “What did you taste?”
She held very still, the tiny smile fading as she gazed back at him, and he became abruptly aware of a heat and ache in his groin and the almost overpowering urge to plunge his hands wrist-deep into her hair and pull her hard against him.
“Black currant,” she said. “Toasted oak. Limestone.”
He heard her breathing increase, her heart a growing thrum against her ribs, and wondered what caused it, hoped that maybe, somehow, it had something to do with him.
Jesus
, he thought,
she is so beautiful.
That skin, those lips, that fragile, perfect—
“Easy,” he scoffed quietly, still holding her gaze. He allowed the tip of his index finger to graze the side of her thumb. She didn’t move or blink, but her pupils dilated a fraction of an inch.
“What else?” he murmured, leaning toward her, inhaling the scent of her skin. The ache in his groin grew to a throbbing, uncomfortable stiffness.
“Spanish cedarwood. Anise. Cinnamon.” She paused. “Woodsmoke.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Woodsmoke?”
The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips and he almost groaned, it was so erotic. “You won’t believe me,” she said.
He leaned closer and smiled at her. It was a dangerous smile, a hungry smile, he knew by the way her eyes widened when she saw it, but he couldn’t help himself. It took all his willpower just to keep from kissing her. “You would be surprised at what I would believe, Jenna,” he said, low. “Try me.”
She sank her teeth into her lower lip, hesitating, then came to some unspoken decision with the slight lift of one shoulder. “There was a wood fire burning near the vines during the growing season, budbreak to harvest. Flowering prune trees, I think.”
He looked at her. Still and lovely, eyes glowing like green embers, she was clearly afraid of his ridicule, of his disbelief. A tremor passed through him. He inched closer.
“Windbreaks.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, throaty. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth.
“Prune trees are used as windbreaks around the vineyards in Pauillac,” he said, teetering on the brink ofself-control. The way she was looking at him, looking at his mouth...“France had an outbreak of phylloxera that season, thousands of trees were infected.”
She glanced back up at him and he was pinned by the power of that gaze, the beauty and haunting luminosity of
“I’ve never...it’s...”
She swallowed again and turned to look at him, wonder and reverence evident in every feature of her face. The guarded tension was gone, all the reticence, the quiet melancholy. In its place was amazement, delight, exhilaration. Joy.
He suddenly found it very hard to breathe through the steel band that tightened around his chest.
“It’s magnificent,” she breathed. “After all these years—after all this time it should be faded, it should be...” She shook her head, blinking. “But it’s
perfect
.”
“Yes,” he murmured, admiring the way the candlelight glowed amber and honey against her hair. Pinned half up, half not, tumbling to her waist, she looked as if she’d just rolled from some very warm bed. “It is. Just at its peak now, I would say. It may even have another ten years ahead of it.”
She set the glass on the table with precise, exaggerated care, then slid it back toward him. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “That was incredible. And very—” She hesitated and swallowed, raised her eyes to his. “Very
non
-pathetic.” A tiny, wry smile twisted her lips.
Without moving his gaze from her face, he reached for the glass and let his fingers settle over hers, the barest friction between their skin, the slightest pressure possible.
“You haven’t answered my question.” His voice came out just as quiet as before, but now it was shaded somber, almost tense. “What did you taste?”
She held very still, the tiny smile fading as she gazed back at him, and he became abruptly aware of a heat and ache in his groin and the almost overpowering urge to plunge his hands wrist-deep into her hair and pull her hard against him.
“Black currant,” she said. “Toasted oak. Limestone.”
He heard her breathing increase, her heart a growing thrum against her ribs, and wondered what caused it, hoped that maybe, somehow, it had something to do with him.
Jesus
, he thought,
she is so beautiful.
That skin, those lips, that fragile, perfect—
“Easy,” he scoffed quietly, still holding her gaze. He allowed the tip of his index finger to graze the side of her thumb. She didn’t move or blink, but her pupils dilated a fraction of an inch.
“What else?” he murmured, leaning toward her, inhaling the scent of her skin. The ache in his groin grew to a throbbing, uncomfortable stiffness.
“Spanish cedarwood. Anise. Cinnamon.” She paused. “Woodsmoke.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Woodsmoke?”
The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips and he almost groaned, it was so erotic. “You won’t believe me,” she said.
He leaned closer and smiled at her. It was a dangerous smile, a hungry smile, he knew by the way her eyes widened when she saw it, but he couldn’t help himself. It took all his willpower just to keep from kissing her. “You would be surprised at what I would believe, Jenna,” he said, low. “Try me.”
She sank her teeth into her lower lip, hesitating, then came to some unspoken decision with the slight lift of one shoulder. “There was a wood fire burning near the vines during the growing season, budbreak to harvest. Flowering prune trees, I think.”
He looked at her. Still and lovely, eyes glowing like green embers, she was clearly afraid of his ridicule, of his disbelief. A tremor passed through him. He inched closer.
“Windbreaks.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, throaty. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth.
“Prune trees are used as windbreaks around the vineyards in Pauillac,” he said, teetering on the brink ofself-control. The way she was looking at him, looking at his mouth...“France had an outbreak of phylloxera that season, thousands of trees were infected.”
She glanced back up at him and he was pinned by the power of that gaze, the beauty and haunting luminosity of
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