It was as if there were two different parts of him, one hiding behind the other, and only in rare, sweet moments did he reveal his true self. Moments like last night.
Moments like now, his lips moving over hers, making a mockery of all his cruel disinterest. He could tell himself anything he liked, but his body didn’t lie, and all the heat pouring off him and the thick ridge of his cock pressing into her told her that last night hadn’t been enough. That he wanted her every bit as much as she longed for him.
Pamela threw herself into this kiss, showing him without words what she felt for him. Far more than lust. She was not a woman who cared lightly or easily. She had guarded her heart well for four years after Bertie’s death, and only Theo had decimated her defenses. Theo, with his secrets and cool eyes and haunted past he wouldn’t speak of.
She hadn’t intended to kiss him when she’d seen him in the hall; she’d only meant to talk to him. But now that his lips were on hers, it felt as inevitable as the sun in the morning sky. And like the sun, he warmed her, brought her to life.
She was new again in his arms. And she was on fire everywhere he trailed his touch. His hands caressed her from hip to waist, then higher. Pulling her into his solidly muscled form as he traced over her spine. One of his hands cupped her nape, the scrape of his rough hands on her sensitive skin lovelier than she could have imagined. The other cradled her face, holding her still as he feasted on her mouth, feeding her long, carnal kisses that made wetness pool between her thighs.
Last night had been foolish and daring and most unwise.
But this afternoon was reckless and dangerous.
Anyone could come upon them. Heavens, she wasn’t even certain if they had properly closed the chamber door. And yet, she didn’t care. Not with his lips moving over hers and his tongue sliding hot and wet and possessive into her mouth. He kissed her thoroughly, claiming her, until all she could taste was him and all she knew was the vibrant, pulsing need to be one with him.
The kiss had begun in angry frustration, but it gradually changed. They were no longer two people at war, but two lovers savoring each other instead. His lips gentled on hers, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone, the hand at her nape clasping her in a tender hold that made her melt against him. The fight fled her, and she was no longer furious with him for mocking what had happened between them.
Instead, she understood he had been clinging to his icy mask, doing everything in his power to ward her off. Like his refusal to disrobe before her, his cutting remarks and chilly indifference had been a means of protecting himself.
His lips left hers to trail a path of fire along her jaw, then lower. Down her throat. “Pamela.” He whispered her name against her skin, part curse, part raw plea. “What do you do to me?”
She hoped she did to him what he did to her. That she made him desperate with wanting. That he could scarcely think for the need coursing through him. That when he finally slept, he woke with a body hungering for hers and an ache that could only be assuaged one way.
Her head fell back, far too heavy, giving his wicked mouth more room to explore, and found her voice. “Tell me again that it’s only lust, what we feel for each other. Tell me that this is meaningless—that I am meaningless—to you.”
His mouth opened, sucking on her skin, the action hot and wet and so very carnal. “If I did, it would be lies.”
Some vindication, then. She moved her hands, which had settled upon his broad shoulders, to his back, caressing him in slow and soothing motions. How she wished for the barriers of cloth to be removed, to touch his naked skin. But more than that, for him to trust her enough to take off every layer keeping his body from hers.
“Why then?” she asked quietly. “Why did you say what you did to me? Why were you so cruel?”
He tensed beneath her questing fingers, the muscles of his back going tight as he raised his head to gaze down at her with stormy eyes. “Because you deserve better. I’m not the man you think I am.”
“Why should I not decide what I deserve?” she asked. “It seems horribly arrogant of you to choose for me and tell me what I want when I already know.”
“And what is it that you want, Marchioness?”
The hand cupping her cheek moved, gliding down her throat in a smooth caress that turned her knees into liquid. How easily he could turn her fury to longing, her outrage to desire. He had such power over her. She was helplessly, hopelessly in this enigmatic man’s thrall.
But how could that be? The knowledge was unwanted and altogether terrifying. She had never thought twice about a man after Bertie, and yet she could see now how easy it was, once her heart had cracked open, to let someone inside it again. And that was most frightening of all, not the physical intimacy she had shared with Theo, but the greater intimacy, the deeper feeling dwelling within. One could give one’s body, lose one’s self to pleasure. But it was the heart, that stubborn, wondrous muscle, that wasn’t penetrated with ease. And once it was…
She held Theo’s stare, her heart thudding hard. He had asked her what she wanted, and the truth was, she wasn’t sure. She had never thought to want happiness for herself again. But perhaps she had been wrong, closing herself off. It seemed to her quite suddenly that she had spent so much time mourning Bertie that she’d forgotten how it had felt to simply be herself. She had buried her grief in dresses and fans and frippery, in society and her reputation, and she had lost the Pamela she had once been.
The Pamela who still longed for kisses and a man’s reassuring touch.
“I want to remember what it’s like to live again,” she told him bravely. “I want passion and happiness.”
“You should find it,” he said, his hand lowering until it splayed over her heart, so big and warm.
She wanted to tell him that she had, that he had brought both back into her life, but she sensed that he wasn’t ready to hear such a confession. There remained what she left unsaid:I want you.And neither was she bold enough to reveal everything to him. Not now. Not yet.
She covered his hand with hers, keeping it pinned in place, asking the question she dared. “Will you come to me again tonight?”
“You should find it elsewhere,” he said gently, sliding his hand from beneath hers. “I’m not the man for you, Marchioness.”
And once again, he was rejecting her. Not as callously as before. His words were soft. But he was rejecting her, nonetheless. It stung. Not just her pride, but her foolish heart.
“Why not?” She held his gaze, challenging him with hers, still holding him in her arms. It gratified her that he did not withdraw. “Why do you insist on pushing me away?”
