Dreaming Of... France. Кейт Хьюит

that she had to fish for each word, forming them slowly, ‘when you brushed my hair before?’

      Ammar didn’t answer for a moment, just kept brushing her hair with long, sensuous strokes, his touch deft and sure and gentle, each stroke of the hairbrush seeming to blaze down Noelle’s back, igniting her with need, even as a wonderful languor flowed through her veins. ‘I remember,’ he finally said in a voice that throbbed with the memory of it.

      Neither of them spoke, the moment seeming to spin on and on between them. She could hear each breath he drew, felt the heat of his body so close to hers. It felt incredibly intimate, even though she couldn’t see him. It felt as if each stroke of the brush released the memories and fear they both had, the pain and hurt and shame, a tender act of both healing and hope.

      ‘There,’ he finally said and, setting the brush down he carefully moved her hair aside and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, just as he had once before. Noelle let out a shuddering breath as his lips lingered on her skin. ‘I love you,’ he said softly, and her heart expanded so it seemed to fill her whole chest. She couldn’t breathe.

      ‘I love you, too,’ she whispered. ‘So much.’ She hadn’t said that before, had only told him she wanted to love him. As if it was difficult. A challenge instead of a joy. Now she understood how simple it could be, how perfect and pure.

      Silently, Ammar reached for her hand, threaded her fingers through his. She still couldn’t see him, although she felt the solid strength of him behind her, his warm breath fanning her ear. And in that moment she felt her whole self buoy with happiness; she felt as if she could float right up to the sky, and no more so than when Ammar whispered, his voice rough with emotion and want, ‘Come upstairs with me. Forget dinner and come upstairs with me right now.’