New Release and Giveaway! KING OF NOTHING by Paula Dombrowiak (Kingmaker Series #1)

The tilt of her head causes fine pieces of hair to caress the side of her neck, and I want to run my finger over the arch, across her shoulder, and push the strap of her dress down so I can kiss the top of it, but I don’t. Instead, I hold my breath, wondering what she’s thinking, because her silence is killing me… and every moment she breathes instead of speaks causes a painful beat of my heart. “It’s Emerson,” I say, stepping forward to stand next to her.

“I know,” she says with a hint of humor.

“You don’t like it?” I ask. “Because we can go back if you…”

“Shut up, Darren.”

I do as I’m told, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels. She looks at the photograph as if she’s memorizing every detail, and I find myself jealous of her attention to something other than me.

When I can’t stand the silence anymore, I ask, “He’s not a particularly good-looking gentleman is he?”

The profile accentuates his large nose and prominent chin. I realize I’ve never studied what Emerson looked like, only his words. But now, scrutinizing his picture, I can see why.

“It’s not just about someone’s physical appearance,” she says without looking away from the photograph, “it’s his words; what’s in his heart, and how he lives his life,” she continues. “I think he’s kind of beautiful.”

The way she talks about Emerson is hypnotizing – describing what’s below skin and muscle to one’s soul is the true meaning of beauty.

The piece of Emerson I used to hate belonged to my father – self-righteous and hypocritical. She strips away all the awful parts, allowing me to see a new version of him. Just as she threatens to make me fall in love with him, I begin to wonder.

“Who made you fall in love with Emerson?” I ask, and she finally turns to face me, her wide blue eyes filled with trepidation, and I feel as though my question has hit the vulnerable muscle between bone and tendon like the piercing of an arrow.

“Who says I’m in love with Emerson?” she asks, and it’s not lost on me that she’s evading my question, but I’m too distracted by the way her body moves and the red silk of her dress that leaves little to the imagination to keep hold of my thoughts.

“No love can be bound by oath or covenant to secure it against a higher love,” I provide her with a particularly lovely quote by Emerson.

“Nobody talks like that anymore,” she says, a romanticism in her eyes and her voice that makes me sad, because I’ve lost that innocence—or maybe I never had it to begin with—but I want a piece of it. I want to sink my teeth into it and shiver from its sweetness.

“It’s a dead language, like Latin,” I muse.

“Not dead. Just lost.”

I sniff, loosening my bowtie and spinning around the room to look at all of the other framed photographs and paintings. “Have you ever had a client recite poetry to you in bed?” I ask. “Is that a kink?”

“That’s a vulgar question.”

“I’m a vulgar man.”