He lifts my left wrist to his mouth, pressing it to the pale underside. His lips feel hot, or maybe it’s my blood. I wonder if he can feel my pulse galloping. My anger might’ve drained, but I don’t feel calm because at the brush of his mouth, everything inside me contracts.
“I’ve thought of you so much since that night.” There’s such an intensity to his words, and he shakes his head as though he can’t believe it himself. Or maybe it’s that he’d like those thoughts of me to go away. “And then, at the townhouse, there you were.”
“But you were angry,” I whisper, confused. That cold night in London, his anger was well restrained, but I could see it shimmering under the surface. Just like I can see it now.
“Yes, I was angry at myself. I wanted you so much, but if I’d given in that night, done what I wanted to do . . .”
“What you wanted?” I prompt when it seems like he won’t finish. Suddenly, I want to hear what he has to say more than I want my next breath. A breath that seems lodged high in my chest.
“Holland.” My name sounds like an ache, sweet and poignant. “I have very little time for myself, and I’m tied to this fucking dukedom above everything else. But God help me, when I look at you, I can only think of myself. Of my own needs. Of what I want. And that’s why I wanted you at dinner. I didn’t think about you, of how being there would make you feel. I’m no good for you, darling, because I can’t see beyond the want of you. Every time your eyes find mine, every time I touch you, I want to damn the world to hell just to be inside you.”
The hunger in his eyes, in his fingertips, is echoed by a sudden, solitary pulse somewhere deep inside.
You are a gift, he’d said once. Beautiful and unpredictable, just as life is.
I close my eyes, blocking out his expression, but it only serves to heighten my senses. His breath on my face and the want in his fingertips. The cool wall at my back is like a memory turned real. The strength in his hands as he’d pinned my wrists to the bed. The clawing ache between my legs sends my mind spinning.
I hadn’t imagined how powerful the experience was with him because it’s still twisting me in knots to this day.
My eyes open on a slow blink, though it takes me a moment to grasp our bodies separating by stages. His thigh slides from between mine, his hands unfurling from my wrists to lie by his sides. One last soft brush of his breath again my hairline.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, cool air filling the space between us. “I can see you don’t feel the same. This was a mistake.”
But mistakes are spilt milk, bad haircuts, and mixing green pesto to the pan instead of Thai green curry paste. Regrets, however, are for tomorrow.
My arms rise before me, my hands splaying across his chest like starfish. The light overhead glints like a wink from the ring on my thumb as my fingers wrap around the lapels of his jacket.
“You don’t want this.” His voice isn’t at all uncertain but rather dark and velvety as I begin to tug him closer.
“Don’t tell me what I want.” Give me what I need instead, I think as I curl my hand against his nape and pull his mouth to mine.
The initiation might be mine, but the kiss is all his. His lips crash against mine, hot and furious, his tongue demanding entrance as his hands tighten on my waist. As he presses his thigh against me and a flare of heat presses through me. His fingers begin to unfurl, a harsh breath at my cheek turning to a press of lips. “Darling, I don’t want you to regret this.”
But my mind has already shut down, my animal self responding to a need so powerful, it feels dangerous not to give in to it.
“How about you use your mouth for something other than talking,” I snarl as my grip tightens on his neck, a ferocity sweeping through me.
His lips press to the juncture of my neck and shoulder as, with a pained sounding groan, he rolls his pelvis against me.
“If you don’t want me to talk, maybe you should just sit on my face.” His seductive tone curls around my ear, the base suggestion blooming and bursting inside.
That is—hot. And nasty. And oh, God, how I want it. I want it all. Want what I shouldn’t. Want what I’ll take anyway.
“Screw you,” I rasp, my hand sliding from his neck to his hair. Tightening there.
“Oh, darling, you have,” he purrs. “My God, you have.”
Then he kisses me, cutting off my response I might have. He kisses me like my participation isn’t required nor deserved. My knees give way, but that doesn’t matter as he grips my ass, dragging me against him as though he’d fuck me right here in the hallway.
“Tell me you forgive me,” he demands, sucking at my throat, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. Bruises I want. Fierceness I demand. But as his mouth gentles, his hands cupping my elbows, I realise he’s pulling back.
“No,” I gasp, my fingers tightening, my need shimmering.
“I want.” His words are a hoarse whisper. “I need—say it.”
“I don’t forgive you,” I rasp, pulling him against me, refusing to be seduced by his brutal beauty. By the lush temptation of his mouth. “Not for tonight.”
“Then forgive me for the things I’m about to do to you.”
His words aren’t soft, and they crash through me like a thunderbolt. Though nothing else makes sense, I know with absolute certainty that I want him. Just one more time, I tell myself. And like regrets, I’ll leave the thoughts of consequences for tomorrow.
25
Holly
Our footsteps are muffled by a carpet of deep reds and indigo, worn and threadbare in parts thanks to generations of use. How many dukes of Dalforth had walked these halls, dragging behind them some unsuitable woman he wanted to fuck?
That’s unfair, I think to myself. He would’ve put aside his want for you.
You’re the instigator of this—you put yourself in the driving seat.
When we don’t turn towards the service stairs, I tug a little on his hand, even as I realise why: between the dining room and service stairs will be a hive of activity. I’m sure there’s no need to give them anything else to gossip about. The same goes for the guests in the parlour whose voices we can hear as we turn the corner.
“Do we have to?” My eyes seek Alexanders. “I mean, pass by there?”
“Unfortunately. It’s there or the back stairs.” His expression when he glances down at me is less like a smile and more like a mockery of one.
Okay, I know I asked for this—but I didn’t ask for this. An outing. The walk of shame in reverse. “Are we going to make a run for it?”
“No need. Judge it right, and we’ll pass and be up the stairs before anyone realises.”
“Skulking in your own castle, your grace,” I find myself playfully replying. He smiles down at me, and something inside me unfurls. “I do—” forgive you, I almost say. I forgive you because I understand desire makes us do crazy things. But as his hand tightens on mine, my declaration goes unfinished, my feet beginning to slow along with his.
Then I hear. A door creaking open up ahead. Voices shortly following.
I don’t have time to panic as Alexander moves, and as quick as a flash, we’re tumbling into a room. Except tumbling would imply we made some noise. But it’s hard to make a sound, pressed between a castle wall and a wall of Alexander.