And most of all, sitting in his office, reading through scenes—the times he’d touched her. The sound of his voice. The warmth of his mouth when rather than kiss her, he’d tasted her everywhere else.
But this time the kiss was real. She inhaled him. She tasted him. His lips were hot and damp and spiced with scotch or whisky.
He wasn’t a director working with an actress. He was a flesh and blood man. And this kiss had her squeezing her thighs together, surprised by the rush of excitement between her legs.
Early that morning she’d chastised herself for imagining that almost-kiss had been anything other than a tutorial of sorts.
Theatrical people were less inhibited than society. They had to be.
She’d come to the theater prepared to perform what duties she could with the time she had, to figure out just what she was going to do—and to hopefully secure some sort of lodgings.
And instead…
He was kissing her, a kiss that burned with intensity.
He didn’t just press his lips to hers. He staked a claim with his mouth even as his arms tightened around her like steel bands.
Somehow she was sitting on his lap, and she’d molded herself to him. The trail of fervor shooting down her spine set every inch of her skin on fire—every inch wanting…
More.
To be touched? Kissed? Tasted?
“What the devil are you doing to me?” Carter murmured against her neck.
“A scene,” Elle answered, trying to slow her racing heart. “Just acting out another scene.”
A low chuckle shook him. “Indeed,” he said.
Oh, but he was joking with her! And sitting in his lap, like a woman who’d been lost in the desert, she absorbed the almost foreign sense of belonging.
She’d never been happier since she’d started working at the theater, and she’d attributed that to the theater itself. But she couldn’t separate this man from that belonging.
In being honest with herself, she’d been drawn to him from the beginning. Not because he was the director, but because of the man himself. The way he looked at her.
Carter ended the kiss abruptly—much as one wakes up to thunder. He’d come close the day before, but now he’d done it.
And with her sweetness lingering on his lips, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do it again.
She tucked her face against his neck, making no move to return to her own chair. Carter smoothed over copper-red hair—super fine, the colors of fire.
“Something’s bothering you.” He might not be able to save the theater, but perhaps he could help Elle. Even if his father did accuse him of doing the devil’s work.
She exhaled, lifting a few strands of hair off her face. “Fathers…” She murmured, as if having read his mind, and shook her head. “Why must they be so interfering?”
Carter raised his brows, but then he realized—“Your father still considers your writing nothing more than a hobby—even knowing your play will be produced at Drury Lane?” What was wrong with the man?
“He’ll never change. And my mother is worse.” She closed her eyes and Carter couldn’t help noticing the fine blue lines barely visible on her eyelids. Unable to stop himself, he pressed a kiss there.
She sighed. “They aren’t at all pleased that I want to make my life in the theater.”
“I suppose they want you to marry well.” At the very least, he’d wager she’d had a gentlelady’s upbringing. Carter dropped his gaze to her mouth, a darker shade of red and shiny from his kiss. And then he took one of her hands in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.
He wasn’t ready to release her and she did nothing to indicate she wanted him to.
“It’s worse than that, actually. If I choose to continue working as a playwright, I cannot live in their house.”
Carter moved his thumb in slow and steady circles.
