As if he’d arrived at the same conclusion, he said, “We may be here all night.”
“Oh, dear,” Olivia began, her voice cracking at the feeble attempt at a rejoining lightness, “the Duke and Lucy think me at a supper party”—It became easier to affect lightness with each word she spoke—“My first act as owner of this house will be to have that lock repaired.”
“My man Payne knows I’m here, so rescue will arrive at some point. We shan’t starve.” He took his seat beside hers. “We could start shouting. That might yield quicker results.”
“I would rather starve than pay that particular price.” Even as the words left her mouth, she was uncertain they were as true now as they’d been a few days ago. Very little from a few days ago seemed as true now.
His eyes searched hers. “Would you?”
Her insides tumbled over themselves, and her body gave an involuntary shiver.
“Are you cold?”
She nodded. Exhausted by the revelations and near revelations of this night, she lay back and snuggled deep inside his voluminous wool overcoat. “Silly on an April night.”
Before she had a chance to review the import of her words, he’d already begun a course of action.
Namely, he slid off his chair and knelt beside her. “As you already have my overcoat for warmth, all I can offer you is the rest of me.”
Chapter 21
Olivia rolled onto her side and lifted the edge of Jake’s overcoat.
His gaze serious and, oh, so attractive, he asked, “Are you certain?”
“Quite.” These last few days, she only felt this certain when her body was near his and instinct was given free rein. Except it wasn’t simple instinct that drove her.
Something deeper. Something . . .right. Something . . . so wrong.
He slipped in beneath the coat, their bodies close, but not touching. The cool and crisp night air turned warm and soft in the space that lay between them, the world shrunk down to him and her.
“This doesn’t have to lead anywhere,” he said, his words a low rumble that shook every cell in her body.
She nodded, closed her eyes, and allowed her other senses to take over. Indeed, the warmth of his body did satisfy a certain skin-deep need. But it also sparked another want deep within her. Experience had taught her that this budding feeling of desire wouldn’t be placated by the constrained nearness of his clothed body. Such an obstacle only increased its appetite.
Two days ago, she’d allowed her desire to conflate reality and fantasy into an extension of her dream state. As if the self-deception absolved her of culpability in the matter. Tonight, separated from his body by a stretch of air at once insignificant and unbearably tremendous, she didn’t want absolution. Tonight, she would claim and own her actions.
On this particular night, beneath these particular stars, in this particular moment, this particular man would be hers. He would never be husband to her, but he would be her lover one last time.
Her eyes blinked open, unsurprised to find his serious gaze steadily, patiently, observing her. What an aphrodisiac his seriousness was. She’d never been the focal point of such reflective attention. It emboldened her. It made her want to act in a way outside herself. It made her want to seduce him beyond the limits of his self-control. She reached out to touch his face, her index finger trailing along the fine ridge of his cheekbone.
“Olivia—”
The tip of her finger continued its trail to his firm lips before pausing. “And if I want this to lead somewhere?”
Across the few inches separating their bodies, could he feel her pulsing with desire for him? It had begun with a simple, excited acceleration of her heart that with each successive beat spread a thrum through her body. She would vibrate off this reclining chair if she didn’t steady herself with the full length of his body hard against hers. The light touch of her index finger wasn’t nearly enough. Too few nerve endings made contact with his skin. She wanted more. But not yet.
Her finger continued its way across his chin, its golden stubble picking up flickers of moonlight, and down his neck before hooking his cravat and untying its knot in a few economical motions. Then her finger resumed its course, sliding along the seam of his shirt until it fell open to his waistcoat. She pushed it wide for a better view of his chest when she noticed the shadow of a bruise located directly over his heart.
On an impulse, she bent her head and pressed her lips to bruised skin. Her eyes lifted and found him quietly regarding her. The kiss might not solve anything, but sometimes an instant of grace was all one needed to get through to the next moment.
Ever lower, her finger trailed until it reached the top of his trousers. His hand darted out and covered hers, stilling it. “Not like this. Not again.”
She arched an eyebrow in silent query.
“Are you still cold?”
She shook her head. “I’m burning up.”
