Excerpt of The Forbidden Rose by Joanna Bourne

Paris 1794

She was alone, suddenly, with Guillaume LeBreton.

He stood, being inscrutable, which was one of his talents.
In the stark white robe he became dark and exotic. The long
folds and draped sleeves made a mandarin of him.

How does he pass unnoticed through the streets of the city? It is as if a lion joined a pack of dogs and none of them remarked upon it. “Did you follow me from my house?”

“Something like that. You didn’t make any secret where you
were going.”

“It was a perfectly useless thing to do, following me. It is
over between us. We know it is impossible. We said
farewell.” She ran out of words abruptly.

“I changed my mind.”

He did not move, except to breathe. He was like an idol that
was made of smooth, brown stone, but also alive. His hands
were in the knot of his belt. It was a little to the side
and tied twice. He would take less than a moment, untying it.

She picked up her comb to have something to do with her
hands. Set it down again. She would feel more comfortable if
he talked more.

“I see your plan,” she said. “You do not want me to regret
parting with you. You have come to give me another hour of
your company so I shall become delighted not to see you
again. There is a logic in this. If we were to live cheek by
jowl for a week, I would wish you in Parthia or on that
island in the Pacific where the birds are the size of dogs
and have never learned to fly.”

He paid no attention to what she was saying. He loosened the
knot that tied the belt of his robe.

“There is no reason to take your clothing off in that menacing and improper way. We will do nothing whatsoever that requires a lack of clothing. When I said you should stay, I . . .” I was not looking at your body. I was not thinking about it. I cannot think clearly when you are nearby. “I meant that we should talk.”

His robe was loose in long, strong lines down his body. Like
columns. He took three slow steps and he was beside her. She
did not try to move. He lifted her toward him until their
skin touched.

Fragile restraints broke everywhere in her mind. She placed
her hands fl at upon his chest and shoved cloth aside so she
could kiss him there.

She could not speak. Not at all. Her muscles made decisions
without consulting her brain. Her body flared into fire.
Heat raced through her blood, curled low in her belly,
rushed to fill the empty spaces of her mind.

He was warm and naked. Her hands fumbled with the edges of
his robe, opening it upward, across his shoulders,
deciphering the message of dark hairs and brown skin and the
ridges of bone and muscle that were the body of Guillaume
LeBreton. If she thought too much about this, she would push
him away and stop this. She did not want to let him go, so
she did not think.

Where had her robe gone? How had it become untied? It did
not matter in the least.

She was distracted. So distracted. It was as if her fingers
could see color. The deep tans of his neck. As if the rough
prickles of his neck became visible when she explored him
there. He was too vivid for mere feeling. He consumed every
sense.

I should not do this . . . She did not say that aloud. She did not even think it loudly.

He stroked her body, all the way up and down the length of
her. He spread his hands on her hips. Rough palms molded her
skin, held to her bone, as if she were sculpted and he were
the artist. Awe spoke from his hands. He found her
beautiful. More than beautiful. It was as if he worshipped.

He was sweet and forbidden fruit. Forbidden to her in ten
thousand ways. A single desperate indulgence. She had set
him aside and walked away in pain, knowing the exact limits
of her freedom. Now she came home to find forbidden fruit
growing, unexpectedly, in her garden. Guillaume.

Kisses deep inside her mouth. Kisses that traveled happily
across her lips. Kisses that strayed over her face and down
her throat so that she raised her head, eyes closed, and
gasped for air. Anticipated, anticipated, waited with every
stitch of her being for the next small nip, the next lap of
his tongue. He was a man who understood many nuances of
loving a woman with his mouth.

She trembled, thinking that, and pressed herself against him
and she was lost in him.