"I no longer need help turning." Aubrey's mouth found hers again, the kiss slower now but no less heated. "But I need you, Eleanor. God, how I need you."
"I heard you moan through the wall," Eleanor managed between kisses. "I thought you were in pain."
"I was dreaming about you." Aubrey's hand traced up her spine, making her shiver. "About this afternoon. About you kissing me. And then Iopened my eyes, and you were actually here, and for a moment I thought I was still dreaming."
He kissed her again, more deeply this time, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made Eleanor's toes curl. His hands roamed over her back, her waist, learning the shape of her through the thin barrier of fabric.
Eleanor felt powerful in a way she'd never experienced before. This beautiful, impossible man wanted her. Not just physically, though the evidence of that was unmistakable, but in every way that mattered. She could feel it in the reverence of his touch, hear it in the desperate sounds he made when she kissed him back.
She was driving him mad with want. And she liked it.
Her hand slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his abdomen, lower…
Aubrey gasped when her fingers found his erection through his nightshirt. His hips jerked involuntarily, and the sound he made was something between a groan and a plea.
"Eleanor…" His voice was ragged. "You're playing with fire."
"I know." Eleanor's hand moved experimentally, feeling the heat and hardness of him, confirming what she already knew. He wanted her. Desperately. Completely.
Aubrey's breathing became more laboured, his hands gripping her tighter, his mouth finding hers with increasing hunger. He was losing control, she realised, coming undone beneath her touch.
And suddenly Eleanor understood the danger.
She was in his bedroom in the middle of the night, wearing only her nightgown, touching him intimately while he kissed her with barely restrained passion.
If she stayed here another minute, there would be no more thinking. No more sense. Just this overwhelming need that threatened to consume them both.
Eleanor pulled back abruptly, stumbling away from the bed. Her lips were swollen, her body trembling, her breathing as ragged as his.
"I have to go," she gasped.
"Eleanor." Aubrey pushed himself up slightly, reaching for her. "Stay."
"I'm sorry. I can't." She was already backing toward the door, her hands shaking. "Goodnight, Aubrey."
She fled before he could respond, practically running back to her own room. Only when she'd closed and locked the door behind her did she allow herself to collapse against it, her heart racing so fast she thought it might burst from her chest.
She could still taste him. Could still feel the imprint of his hands on her body, the heat of his mouth on hers, the hard evidence of his desire beneath her fingers.
Eleanor pressed trembling hands to her burning face and tried to catch her breath.
Six more days until she left, until she could think clearly, away from his presence, away from the overwhelming need he inspired in her.
Six more days. If she could survive them.
Behind her locked door, Eleanor climbed back into bed with shaking legs and closed her eyes.
But sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of blue eyes and skilled hands and a voice whispering her name like a prayer.
And in the morning, she would have to face him again.
Pretend that nothing had changed.
Even though everything had.
Chapter twenty-three
Seventh Day of Wooing a Wife
