The suggestion entered her pleasure-hazed mind that he might never let her go.
And she might hope he wouldn’t.
Bran hadno concern for the race of his heart or the pounding of the blood through his veins or the dull throbbing in his right hip.
Such trivialities were concerns of the body and would sort themselves out soon enough.
In this transcendent air only she and he mattered.
Artemis wanted, and he gave.
It was an arrangement that suited him—suitedthem.
And beyond this act of coupling, he wanted to give her more.
Not yet.
He couldn’t speak his want just yet.
In the past, they’d been impulsive—and they hadn’t lasted.
Now, impulse wouldn’t be his guide.
Now, he knew better than to make reckless proclamations in the heady wake of coupling.
He knew what he wanted—Artemis.
Further, he knew she wanted him—and not only in the physical sense.
But the question remained—did she want him enough?
For a very solid obstacle stood in their path—the duchess.
Once, she’d prevailed.
Now, he understood she still possessed the will to part them.
The cool blue glint of her eye when their gazes met in the drawing room had made that will all too abundantly clear.
Really, it came down to Artemis.
She would have to defy her mother if he and she were to have a future.
The question was deceptively simple.
Could she?
But he wouldn’t speak of that now.
Not with her soft, sated, and yielding in his arms.
He kissed one heavy, sweet breast, then the other, before tugging chemise and dress up and over them. He kissed her clavicle and her throat, then he found her mouth and kissed her love-crushed lips until his cock returned to half-mast.
“Bran,” she exhaled.
He pulled back, and their eyes met, and he saw the world there in her eyes—satiety … sweetness … sunshine … wanting … yearning … curiosity …“Artemis,” he began, “what do you want at this very moment?”
He shouldn’t have asked.
