The accent that reminded her he was an aristocrat who belonged to a world she could not even comprehend while she was an orphan from the red dirt of Georgia, a woman who had made her way in a man’s world, earning her own bread. He had been born to respect and luxury, groomed from birth and by the circumstance of it to be treated with the utmost respect. For a moment, the heat sliding through her cooled as she was reminded of all the reasons why this one night was all they could have.
Their lives were too disparate. One day, she would return to New York. He would remain here where he belonged, in a home with chamber pots that were fancier than all the crockery she had ever dined on prior to her arrival in London.
He seemed to sense the sudden reticence in her, because he joined her on the bed, stretching his long, lean body alongside her, and cupped her face. “We do not have to do this, Hazel. Not if you do not want it.”
But he had misread her hesitation. She clasped his wrists, grateful for his tenderness, and lost herself in his eyes. “I want this. I wantyou.”
“Thank Christ.” On a growl, he buried his face in her neck, kissing her there, then opening his mouth and sucking.
It was as if he wanted to mark her. As if he wanted to brand every part of her body with his taste, his smell, his touch, his searing style of pleasure. And she wanted him everywhere.
She reached for him, pushing aside the doubts in her mind. They could be addressed later. Tonight was hers. Arden was hers.Not Arden, she reminded herself as she ran her hands over him, savoring the hot, sleek male flesh and the barely leashed strength lingering just beneath the surface.
Lucien.
She must have spoken his name aloud, for he ceased suckling her throat and raised his head. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.He had called her that before, when she had been injured, and earlier, when he had been pleasuring her with such depraved persistence. But something about the way he said it now, something about the deepness of his voice coupled with the intimacy of the moment—both of them naked, skin to skin in his bed—resonated with her. Broke something inside her.
But perhaps it was something that had been meant to be broken all along. Long ago, when she had been hopelessly in love with Adam only to lose him, she had sworn she would never again allow herself to feel anything for another man. She had always supposed a part of her had died along with him, never to be resurrected. Now, it seemed what had been inside her had been a monument to her grief, precious and precarious, fashioned of her own guilt, her own fears, and her everlasting sorrow.
The monument had lodged inside her, impenetrable and immovable, obstructing her ability to feel, until Arden had come along. Until he had dared her with his arrogant condescension to prove her worth. Until he had shown her he was just as vulnerable on the inside as she was. Until he had made her see she had not been honoring Adam’s memory by closing herself off from the world.
She had only been protecting her heart.
“Hazel?” Lucien’s brow furrowed, his gaze probing hers. “Tears?”
She blinked, realizing belatedly her cheeks were wet, her lashes spiked with drops. Leftover emotions she had never allowed herself to indulge in the wake of Adam’s brutal killing swarmed her.
“We need not go any further,” he said, kissing her cheek, the tip of her nose, her forehead.
His gentleness and concern pierced her armor. “It is not that,” she reassured him, caressing him wherever she could—his back, his shoulders, his rigid jaw.
“What is it then?” He traced her cheekbone, then the whorl of her ear, with his forefinger.
It was as if every part of her was desirable to him, as if he needed to touch her everywhere. And she recognized the feeling, for she felt it too. It was the way she felt about him.
She took his hand in hers and turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. “It is me, realizing I can still feel after all this time.”
“What happened to you, Hazel Montgomery?” he asked, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. “Will you tell me?”
But she was not ready to answer his question. Not now, not yet. Just as he had not been prepared to unburden himself to her.
“One day,” she said, hoping she could keep her promise. “Not tonight. Tonight, I want you inside me.”
“Jesus, Hazel.” He kissed her slowly, lingeringly.
She had proven to herself that the part of her she had believed died alongside Adam had not. Lucien had helped her to resurrect it. First, with longing. And now, with something more. Caring and compassion. Tenderness.
Their kiss deepened. As one, they moved until Hazel was on her back and Lucien atop her, settled between her splayed thighs. His fingers dipped between them, working her to a new crescendo, before he withdrew.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh and ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. “Are you certain?”
She did not hesitate. “Certain.”
His blunt tip met her slick and swollen flesh. He positioned himself at her entrance, poised to take her.
“How slow must I go, Hazel?” he asked.
