Read Online Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) by Diane J. Reed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane J. Reed
Tags: Romance
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free and naked in this wild bramble as if we’d somehow stumbled upon Eden. Yet even though I can feel Creek’s every muscle snap at my touch, reaching for the warmth of my fingers, his hand stops mine from quickly unraveling every button and zipper on his frame.
“Robin,” he gasps, startled, “do you see them?”
For a moment I wonder if he means more ghosts.
I shake my head, confused.
He peers through the branches, pointing to a small cluster of trees on the horizon.
With the sun behind them, I can make out the dark outline of some people who look like they’re setting up a camp in the woods, with the silhouette of tents and wagons on either side. Tethered to their vehicles are several horses.
“It’s them,” Creek’s lip curls into a half-smile. He reaches over and plucks the gold earring from its bed of leaves, tossing and catching it in air. “The gypsies.”
“But how do we know if they’ll help us like the gondolier did?” I ask, daunted by their shadowy presence. “Or if they’re even for
real
.”
My own words make me shudder. Uneasy, I strip a few leaves from my hair.
At that moment, the wind sends a strange scuffling sound like whispers.
Creek pulls the blue feather he’d saved from his pocket and runs it along my cheek with a thoughtful glance. “That’s the thing, we don’t know,” he replies, swiping another kiss. “We’ll never know. We’ll have to wing it, like usual.”
He’s so handsome in the thin sunlight that filters through the trees, caressing his rugged face and tousled hair with hints of amber warmth. My body’s aching for us to be skin on skin, with nothing between us but heat. I half expect to die from the rush of blood between my thighs, working its way up and making me feel as if my insides are on fire. Creek smiles and leans against me, hard against my pelvis, and the look in his eyes is all yearning, all . . .
possession
. Yet at the same time, his expression has that familiar, endless sadness, as though forever haunted at the edges by . . . loss.
I swallow a ragged breath, knowing every woman he’s ever tried to love has either died or deserted him.
But that doesn’t fucking mean
me
.
I force up my chin.
I’ve staked a claim to his heart and I’m here to stay—and with all my might, I try to let my eyes burn that message into his. To make him feel it coming from my body and soul in waves.
Creek doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t exactly fall into my embrace either.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I roll up his flannel shirt sleeve to remind him of the scar that must still be painful on his arm.
“Partners,” I say adamantly, tracing the letters of the word with my finger and watching him hold back his flinch. “We’re always gonna be partners, Creek, ’cause you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Impulsively, I hold up my hand to show Creek the stain of his own blood on my fingertip. With a devil-may-care smirk, I wave it in front of him like I’d dipped my finger in a sweet berry liqueur and brazenly take a lick. Fuck Martiya and all her weird plans—if this act binds my soul to Creek’s forever, so be it.
I totally expect the ruby to wobble in my pocket and throw off sparks, whispering bizarre demands until it practically sizzles my ass.
But instead, it remains still.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the silhouettes of the gypsies seated around their camp in the distance with a small bonfire in front of them. One by one, they each turn to face me and stand up.
As we walk hesitantly up to the camp at twilight, the gypsies stare me down, almost unblinking, with a strange look of wonder as if I were a long-lost cousin who’d run off to find her fortune in childhood, now returned years later like a ghost. The light of their bonfire warms their faces, and at first, only the men approach me with folded arms, jabbering in their gypsy tongue and peering cautiously at Creek as if he might be dangerous.
They’re
“Robin,” he gasps, startled, “do you see them?”
For a moment I wonder if he means more ghosts.
I shake my head, confused.
He peers through the branches, pointing to a small cluster of trees on the horizon.
With the sun behind them, I can make out the dark outline of some people who look like they’re setting up a camp in the woods, with the silhouette of tents and wagons on either side. Tethered to their vehicles are several horses.
“It’s them,” Creek’s lip curls into a half-smile. He reaches over and plucks the gold earring from its bed of leaves, tossing and catching it in air. “The gypsies.”
“But how do we know if they’ll help us like the gondolier did?” I ask, daunted by their shadowy presence. “Or if they’re even for
real
.”
My own words make me shudder. Uneasy, I strip a few leaves from my hair.
At that moment, the wind sends a strange scuffling sound like whispers.
Creek pulls the blue feather he’d saved from his pocket and runs it along my cheek with a thoughtful glance. “That’s the thing, we don’t know,” he replies, swiping another kiss. “We’ll never know. We’ll have to wing it, like usual.”
He’s so handsome in the thin sunlight that filters through the trees, caressing his rugged face and tousled hair with hints of amber warmth. My body’s aching for us to be skin on skin, with nothing between us but heat. I half expect to die from the rush of blood between my thighs, working its way up and making me feel as if my insides are on fire. Creek smiles and leans against me, hard against my pelvis, and the look in his eyes is all yearning, all . . .
possession
. Yet at the same time, his expression has that familiar, endless sadness, as though forever haunted at the edges by . . . loss.
I swallow a ragged breath, knowing every woman he’s ever tried to love has either died or deserted him.
But that doesn’t fucking mean
me
.
I force up my chin.
I’ve staked a claim to his heart and I’m here to stay—and with all my might, I try to let my eyes burn that message into his. To make him feel it coming from my body and soul in waves.
Creek doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t exactly fall into my embrace either.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I roll up his flannel shirt sleeve to remind him of the scar that must still be painful on his arm.
“Partners,” I say adamantly, tracing the letters of the word with my finger and watching him hold back his flinch. “We’re always gonna be partners, Creek, ’cause you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Impulsively, I hold up my hand to show Creek the stain of his own blood on my fingertip. With a devil-may-care smirk, I wave it in front of him like I’d dipped my finger in a sweet berry liqueur and brazenly take a lick. Fuck Martiya and all her weird plans—if this act binds my soul to Creek’s forever, so be it.
I totally expect the ruby to wobble in my pocket and throw off sparks, whispering bizarre demands until it practically sizzles my ass.
But instead, it remains still.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the silhouettes of the gypsies seated around their camp in the distance with a small bonfire in front of them. One by one, they each turn to face me and stand up.
As we walk hesitantly up to the camp at twilight, the gypsies stare me down, almost unblinking, with a strange look of wonder as if I were a long-lost cousin who’d run off to find her fortune in childhood, now returned years later like a ghost. The light of their bonfire warms their faces, and at first, only the men approach me with folded arms, jabbering in their gypsy tongue and peering cautiously at Creek as if he might be dangerous.
They’re
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