Lucien had a restless aggressive manner about him today. He was very physical, always shifting crates, stacking boxes, lifting heavy portmanteaus, his muscles undulating, straining, rippling . . .
She suspected he was the one making it hotter up here. So hot she could hardly think.
These days spent with him were leaving her frayed, like a shawl only one stitch away from unraveling completely. The air was forever charged, prickling with heat—either from their mutual animosity or mutual desire, she didn’t know which.
What she did know, however, was that her own animosity wasn’t what propelled her into dreams of him every night.
Such wicked, scandalous dreams.
Throat dry as parchment, she took another glass of the lemonade that the maid had brought earlier, drinking it down in thirsty gulps. Over the rim, she saw him watching her and the way his biceps flexed when he wiped the back of his hand against his brow.
When some of the tart juice dribbled on her chin, she caught it with her fingertips, pressing them to her lips to sip the droplets from her skin.
He growled at her for no reason at all. “Are you trying to torment me?”
“I don’t know what you could mean. I was merely thirsty,” she said primly as she set the glass back on the tray and smoothed her damp palms over the clinging waist of her skirts.
His gaze missed nothing. “And you drank the last of it, I see.”
“I could fetch more. It would only take a moment.”
He arched a dubious brow. “I’ve come to discover that a moment for you is an indefinite amount of time.”
She set her hands on her hips, the air between them crackling with swift-igniting tension. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re very good at leaving.” He closed the lid of a trunk with decided force. The hollow thunk reverberated along the low, arched ceiling.
“Is this about Italy?”
“Of course this is about Italy,” he said as if she were a simpleton and made a sweeping gesture to encompass everything around them.
She growled and marched across the attic floor, finger pointed. “I left a note and you bloody well know it! Not to mention the numerous letters I sent to you in Somerset.”
“Letters,” he scoffed.
“It’s true. I wrote to you for two years—two whole years—until I decided to hate you instead. Now I’m tired of your accusations, your incessant poking and prodding, and I demand that you leave here at—”
She tripped over a blue hatbox. And the lid jarred loose, snagging the toe of her slipper. She stumbled. Momentum propelled her forward, one-footed and tilting, her arms flailing for balance, graceful as a dodo.
He caught her full-on, chest to chest.
His hands settled on her waist, his gaze on her lips. “If you think that I’m foolish enough to be pulled into your web of seduction a second time, think again.”
“I wouldn’t allow you into my . . . web even if you begged me!”
Her declaration might have held more weight if she didn’t immediately rise onto her toes, take his head in her hands and crush her mouth to his.
He responded instantly. Taking hold of her nape, he slanted his mouth over hers on a greedy, satisfied grunt.
That instant flame of desire sparked to life again as if it had been waiting beneath a curfew all this time and only needed one hot breath to ignite it. His form was so firm and lean, and she fit against him perfectly.
They consumed each other, with lips and teeth and groping hands. Like ravenous animals, they licked into each other’s mouths, fists curled in each other’s hair and clothes.
Picking her up with one arm around her waist, he carried her to a narrow trestle table against the wall. He sent boxes crashing to the floor, then set her on the edge and stepped between her ruckled skirts, his mouth never leaving hers. When his hips bumped hers and a sound—something between a sigh and exultant cry—rose up inside her, he swallowed it down on a guttural growl.
She clung to him, hips arching, desperate to ease the burning ache thudding in heavy liquid pulses between them. He pressed against her, a slow, thick grind that made her shudder.
“I still think about that night.” His tongue dipped into the shallow valley at the base of her throat. “The way we fit together, moved together. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she rasped, her head falling back, neck arching. She felt a rough tug at the cap sleeves of her dress, the sudden relief of seams rending, and then his mouth closing over her breast. Yes.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, molding over his scalp to hold him close as he drew the ripe peak into his mouth. He suckled her flesh in deep pulls, her body clenching, warm and wet.
He looked up at her as he licked the perspiration from between her breasts. “I’m going to take you. But it’s going to be hard and fast the first time. Slow later.”
She nodded, shifting restlessly as he stood between her thighs and lifted her hem higher, his fingertips on the bare skin above her stockings. That heavy pulse thrummed hotter, more insistent.
It was taking forever for him to touch her.
“Hurry,” she said, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, her hands shaking.
He stilled her efforts.
“Let me touch you. I need to please you first because”—he cursed under his breath as he cupped her sex, the linen drawers damp between them—“I’m not going to last. I’m almost over the edge.”
She agreed. This was no time to argue, after all.
He found the slit in her drawers and her eyes closed on the sweet ache as a ragged breath fell from her parted lips. Oh, how she wanted this. And so did he. His desire was so potent, she felt the tremor of his fingertips as he sifted through her curls and heard it in his rough murmur of approval at finding her drenched for him. And it only took his deft slide along the swollen cleft to circle the tender bud once—twice—before his name came out on a sigh. Lucien.
“Not too quick,” she begged as he circumnavigated again.
He nudged her entrance with the blunt tip of his middle finger, then sucked in a breath as he pushed inside the tight constriction. “Damn. I cannot . . . promise anything . . .”
She completely understood. Blindly, she took hold of his wrist, feeling tendons and muscles shifting beneath her grip as he edged inside. Garbled sounds left her with every thrust. And when he added a second finger, wordless pleas were followed by ecstatic exclamations as he drove deeper, his palm rotating against that frenzied pulse.
“Shh . . .” he whispered in her ear, going still. “I think I hear someone on the stairs.”
No sooner had he spoken than Aunt Sylvia called out, “Meg? Are you up here?”
Her eyes flew open. And she felt him stiffen, still inside her, with her body clamped tightly around his fingers. He looked over his shoulder to the mountain of crates between them and the stairs before he spoke.
“It’s Lucien, my lady,” he said. “I believe Miss Stredwick went down to the kitchen for more lemonade.”
The footsteps fell silent on the stairs. Every movement paused—even their own. Though, it was clear that neither of them wanted to stop. He hadn’t moved away from the welcome of her hips, and she was still holding on to his wrist.
What if they were caught like this? What would she say to her aunt?