CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“What happened to the rabbit you trapped the other day?” Rachel cuddled into her pillow. “I was looking forward to your promise of stew, or is it more appropriate to say Lapin a La Cocotte?” She smirked at her attempt at French.
He looked at her, his face blank, his eyes glazing over before a spark of anger—no, recognition—rippled across them. He rolled over on the bed so his lips touched her ear and whispered his answer.
And before she could respond, he placed his mouth over hers, the moisture of his tongue dissolving her thoughts, stifling any words she might have been able to form.
