Rohan’s head lifted. His eyes glowed as if brimstone were contained within the dark-rimmed irises. He spoke slowly, as if he were collecting words like fallen leaves. “This is probably a bad idea.”
Amelia nodded shakily. “Yes, Mr. Rohan.”
His fingertips teased a fresh surge of color to the surface of her cheeks. “My name is Cam.”
“I can’t call you that.”
“Why not?”
“You know why,” came her unsteady reproach. A long breath was neatly rifted as she felt his mouth descend to her cheek, exploring the rosy skin. “What does it mean?”
“My name? It’s the Romany word for ‘sun.’”
Amelia could scarcely think. “As in … the offspring of a father, or in the sky?”
“Sky.” He moved to the arch of her eyebrow, kissing the outward tip. “Did you know a Gypsy has three names?”
She shook her head slowly, while his mouth slid across her forehead. He pressed a warm veil of words against her skin. “The first is a secret name a mother whispers into her child’s ear at birth. The second is a tribal name used only by other Gypsies. The third is the name we use with non-Roma.”
His scent was all around her, spare and fresh and delicious. “What is your tribal name?”
He smiled slightly, the shape of his mouth a burning motif against her cheek. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know you well enough yet.”
Yet. The tantalizing promise embedded in that word shortened her breath. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please, we mustn’t—” But the words were lost as he bent and took her mouth hungrily.