The sinews of his thigh muscles, earned from riding. The strength of his calf. The bulge of his manhood beneath the falls of his breeches. Long and thick. The memory of how it had felt, sliding inside her, produced a burning throb deep within. He had stretched her, known her body in ways she could have never dreamt.
Naughty books, wicked words, engravings—none of these could compare to the visceral experience of being claimed. And he had done that.Camhad done that. He had claimed her. Possessed her.
Filled her.
He was staring at her lips, his gaze hooded. She should not want him as she did. Should not feel the hunger firing to life deep within her. But she did. Something was wrong with her.Hewas wrong with her. Yes, this affliction was all his fault. She would bury herself in the country where he could never find her. Never look at her with those hazel eyes, those well-molded lips.
“Tell me again,” he said.
And his voice, his words, they were a dare.
She stared at his mouth, longing to feel it on hers although she knew she should not. “Tell you what, Lord Hertford?”
“To go.” He slid closer. She was trapped in the spell of his eyes. His potent maleness. His beauty. “Tell me you do not like my touch.”
Her lips were parted. Her sex felt heavy. The throb turned into an ache. A hunger. The burning within her intensified. His possession of her had been exquisite, a marriage of discomfort and pleasure, terrifying and delicious all at once. The pain had turned into the most flawless thrill.
A thrill she longed for again now.
Dear God, in spite of everything, she wanted him again.
“Tell me,” he repeated. “Do it, Eugie. Make those pretty red lips tell me to go.”
She stared at him. The words would not come. The strangeness which had overtaken her was potent. Confusing. She felt as she had once when she consumed too much wine. Glowing. Warm. But something more…
Wicked.
Yes, that was it.
Her tongue ran over her lips. “Go.”
His expression changed, hardening. He began sliding away. “Very well. If that is what you truly wish, I will—”
“No,” she said, too loudly.
The denial rang through her chamber. When it came to the Earl of Hertford, it seemed her foolishness knew no bounds. She flinched from the force of it. From the betrayal, too. Her own voice. Her own tongue. Telling him not to leave. Telling him to stay.
She did not want him to stay. Did she?
Of course not.
Her hand had closed around his wrist like a manacle and she had not realized it. He had, however, for his head was down, his gaze settled upon the connection. The silence that descended was louder than her objection had been, hanging between them. Weighing down the night.
She released him at once.
“You want me to stay, Eugie?” he asked.
The silk had returned to his baritone. The low, seductive rumble. The velvet wrapped around marble.
“I am not finished with our dialogue,” she invented hastily.
“You like my touch.”
The certainty in his tone nettled.
Her eyes narrowed. “I never said that.”
He was grinning at her now. Sitting on her bed, in the midst of the night, grinning. And looking so handsome he made her ache. “You did not need to say it. I already know. Your lips say it. Your wide eyes. The way your body reacts whenever I touch you.”
