Songbird by Syrie James Page A

hammered in her chest as she drank in his frankly adoring gaze for a long, heady moment. She’d been told she was beautiful before. She’d never believed it. Hearing the words on his lips made her feel beautiful for the first time in her life. Her heart soared. She wanted to respond in kind, tell him how attractive she found him and how much she enjoyed his company, but before she could voice her thoughts, he said:
    “ You mentioned that you were married once. Will you tell me about it? What happened?”
    Tearing her eyes from his gaze, she stared into the amber liquid in her glass. “It’s not a happy memory. It was over five years ago, but I still have scars. To tell you the truth, I’d rather not talk about it.”
    He took the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table. The arm behind her dropped to her shoulders and his other hand cupped her face, tilting it gently up to his. “Did he hurt you?” His jaw tensed. “Because if he did—”
    “ No. Not in the way you mean. My scars are purely emotional. I don’t blame him for wanting the divorce. It wasn’t entirely his fault. Mostly it was mine.”
    “ I doubt that. He’d have to be an idiot to give you up.”
    His lips met hers, both possessive and gentle at the same time. His arms wrapped around her tenderly, adoringly. Her arms encircled his back as she arched against him, joining in a sweet, insistent caress with his tongue. She relished the flavor of him, the heat of his skin, the silken texture of his hair.
    “ Desiree…” His lips now nibbled the length of her throat, then took small, teasing bites from her earlobe. “All night, I’ve been dying to hold you...kiss you...touch you like this.”
    His mouth returned to hers as his hand closed over the round fullness of her breast. Slowly he rotated his fingers and palm until her desire bubbled within his grasp. His other hand pulled her blouse loose from the waistband of her skirt and slid up her back. His hand felt rough and masculine against her smooth, bare flesh, sending tingles up her spine. Slowly he stood up, pulling her with him, and held her against his chest.
    His hand glided past her waist, to cup the soft swell of her buttocks. He pressed her body against his, making her aware of the throbbing hardness of his desire. Even through the layers of their clothing she could feel the rapid drumming of his heart, which beat in cadence with her own.
    “ You told me last night you didn’t want to see me again, that you didn’t want me,” he whispered against her lips. “Did you mean it? Was it true?”
    His eyes were shining with affection, alive with need. She tried to tell herself that this was wrong, that they shouldn’t go any further, that she didn’t want him; instead, she admitted, “No. It wasn’t true.”
    Without another word, he swept her up into his arms. She felt his mouth against her forehead, her cheek, her hair. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as he carried her down the dark hallway. Oh God, she thought helplessly, as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his neck. This shouldn’t be happening. But she didn’t want to stop it. Did she?
    He nudged open the door to her bedroom with his foot and strode inside, lowering her gently onto the bed. She heard him fumble with the bedside lamp, then a flick of the switch and the room was filled with soft, golden light. As if in a dream, she watched him shrug out of his vest and toss it onto a nearby chair, then sit down on the edge of the bed and take off his shoes.
    Still wearing his shirt and pants, he turned toward her and grasped her foot, pulling off first one sandal and then the other. He cradled one of her feet in his hands, massaged the high arch, circled his thumb over her toes.
    “ Such tiny feet,” he said with wonder. “So delicate. And your legs...they’re beautiful.” His hand slid up one bare calf, under her silk skirt to cup her knee. His touch sent flames licking up her