He strummed his thumb over her pearl, playing her as if he were a maestro and she his instrument, knowing just where to touch, how much pressure, the perfect pace as he dipped his tongue into her.
She couldn’t withstand another second. Her crescendo burst over her like the sun appearing abruptly after a summer storm. She quaked beneath him, hips pumping, seeking, as he pleasured her to near madness. When the last ripple of bliss had been wrung from her, he lowered her leg gently and emerged from beneath the bedclothes, his mouth dark and glistening.
She was still struggling to catch her breath, thinking him the most handsome man she’d ever beheld when he spoke.
“Marry me.”
Her heart was yet pounding in her ears from the force of her orgasm. She was sure she had misheard him.
“I beg your pardon?” she managed weakly.
His emerald gaze locked on hers, his hair tousled and falling at a rakish angle over his brow. “Marry me, Lottie.”
And just like that, the pleasure drained away like used bathwater from a tub.
She sat up, the bedclothes falling to her lap, her hair a wild tangle that would have to be thoroughly brushed and combed out, but that was a worry for later. “You cannot be serious.”
But he wasn’t smiling, propping himself up on a forearm, unmoving and unrelenting. “I am being serious. Deadly so.”
Lottie stared at him, uncertain of what she should say, her chest tightening, her foolish heart rejoicing. Something deep inside her said this was what she wanted—a husband, a family, Brandon and Pandy. But that was a lie, she reminded herself firmly. That was what the old Lottie would have wanted, the Lottie who had existed before Grenfell. The Lottie who had been naïve and trusting, who had worn her heart on her sleeve. And it had all been for naught.
“You know I cannot,” she told him. “I’ll never marry again.”
Brandon’s nostrils flared in a rare show of ire. “I’m not him. You understand that, do you not?”
The vehemence in his tone startled her.
She drew the bedclothes over her breasts, feeling exposed to him in a way that had nothing to do with her own nudity, and yet the act felt like a comfort, however small. “Of course I am aware of who and what you are. Good heavens, do you think that makes it any better? You are a bigger rakehell than Grenfell ever was.”
It was the truth. Grenfell had been a philanderer, but his conquests had been few rather than legion. His paramours hadbeen lasting. He’d only had four during the course of their marriage that she’d known of, each one a dagger in her heart.
Brandon’s jaw was as tense as she’d ever seen it. Naked and powerful, the bedclothes pooled at his waist, he straightened his spine. “I am nothing like that bastard, Lottie, and you know it.”
Part of her said he was different from her husband. And the other part of her said he was worse—he was beautiful where Grenfell had been harsh-looking though compelling. Brandon had a rumored phalanx of conquests. Grenfell had fallen in love with few by comparison.
And yet, there was the side of Brandon that had melted her inner ice—the doting father who patiently listened to Pandy and tended to Cat. The handsome lover who always attended to her pleasure first instead of assuaging his own lust. The man who treated her opinions as if they were of value, who made her laugh with his dramatics, who reiterated tales about rotten pig trotters.
She was a torn mess of head and heart, common sense and emotion. She didn’t know which part of herself she ought to trust more. She was astonished to realize shewantedto believe Brandon was earnest in his proposal. And yet, she also knew he made it out of necessity rather than as a man who was in love with her, one who wanted to marry her, who needed her not just in his bed, but by his side.
It would never work.
He needed a wife, any wife, and he had clearly decided that she would do for convenience’s sake.
She shook her head. “Brandon, we’ve been through this before. A marriage between the two of us cannot—will not—happen.”
He flicked the hair from his brow, studying her with an intensity that was as disconcerting as it was rousing. “It seems a sensible enough solution to me. We are well suited to each other. Why do you refuse me?”
If only she could render herself impervious to him. To his charm, his masculine beauty, to his wicked seduction. Well. Grenfell had taught her rather a great deal about how to feign invulnerability.
She eyed Brandon calmly. “It seems like a terrible idea, which is why I’ve already told you that I have no intention of wedding anyone.”
He resembled nothing so much as a young lad who had just been informed that he could no longer have his favorite toy.
“Why?” he repeated, sounding hurt.
She swallowed against an unwanted rush of sentiment. “There are many reasons.”
He took her hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. “Tell me them.”
