She couldn’t resist the temptation of asking, “And?”
“He’s an oily bastard. I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could toss him.”
She couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the spot-on description of Bancroft.
“While I cannot give Mr. Bancroft my vote of confidence,” she said justly, “Mr. Shelley in Axmouth runs a reputable business. I wish you luck, sir.”
She turned, heading for the exit. Her hand was on the knob when his planted on the door, keeping it shut. She whirled around—only to find him close.
Much too close.Her pulse throbbed against the tender skin of her throat.
“This arrangement will benefit both of us,” he insisted. “Why won’t you consider it?”
Her spine pressed into the door. A mistake—for her body remembered the last time it had taken this position. The hard door against her back, an even harder Rhys sandwiching her, moving inside her, pleasure bursting in his wake…
“Because I want nothing to do with you,” she managed.
“You didn’t use to feel that way.” He was close enough for her to see the shards of green in his golden-brown irises. “I know you asked me not to bring up the past, but I feel I must. We were friends once, and I thought we parted on good terms, but I think you are angry with me.”
“I’m not angry.” She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had any power over her.
“Good, because you have no reason to be. What happened between us, it was by mutual consent. You wanted me as much as I wanted you.”
If he’d spoken in anger or frustration, her defenses would have leapt to her rescue. But his honesty and directness seeped through the chinks in her armor. She might not be clever, refined, or beautiful, but there was one thing she prided herself upon.
Margaret Foley was fair.
The protective cloak of anger shed from her, leaving her shivering with shame.
“You’re right,” she said…because he was. “You are not to blame for what happened. You didn’t force me to share your bed. I made the choice, and I have to live with it.”
His hand cupped her cheek, and the gentleness of his touch made her swallow. She ought to pull away, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t had this sort of touch in so long. Not since the last time…here, with him. However wrong it was, his heat soothed the aching emptiness inside her. Stirred up the need that her body had never allowed her to forget.
“Sweeting, you seem to think ill of our past while I have nothing but fond memories. No ‘fond’ isn’t the right word.” His thumb stroked down her cheekbone, and God help her, her insides trembled like an aspic. “Whenever I have thought of you, and it has been more often than I’d care to admit, I have remembered your sweetness, generosity, and passion.”
He thought of me…often?
His smoldering gaze seemed to penetrate her innermost recesses. To feed that hidden, dangerous flame that a marriage based on mutual interests and respect had never managed to douse. His thumb stroked along her jaw, her chin, her heart beating in her throat as he caressed the side of her neck. This was wrong, so wrong, and yet…her lips parted.
He lowered his head toward hers, and her eyes closed.
The first touch of his lips melted away reason. No pressure, just a gentle coaxing that unspooled the protective binding she’d placed around her needs. Layer after layer peeled away as the kiss deepened. The taste of him hit her like a drug after years of abstinence. She craved his flavor, that of sin and temptation.
A needful moan broke from her lips, and he soothed it away with his tongue. With each lick, each seductive nibble, she became more lost, desire diminishing her thoughts, need magnifying sensation. Her awareness became his mouth against hers, his hard, lean body pressing her into the door. She tilted her head back for more of his kiss.
His growl vibrated in her throat and then his tongue was inside her. It was like setting a match to kindling: her desire burst into flames. He thrust deep into her mouth, and she opened to him. Welcomed his deliciousness, savored it. The more she had, the more she wanted. Her hands gripped his head, the soft, thick pelt of his hair sliding between her fingers. Her breasts surged against his chest, and even with layers between them, she could feel his rock-hard contours, his unyielding masculinity.
His hands cupped her hips, urged them closer to where he was harder yet. Hard and huge. His bulging desire melted her core, humid heat trickling from her sex. Heavens, she was hot, hot everywhere, and she leaned into the fire…
“By God, you’re sweet,” he groaned against her lips. “Even sweeter than I remembered. I can’t wait to get inside you.”
His words slammed upon her consciousness like a door upon fingers. Pain jolted her. His speech was dirty, carnal, the sort a gentleman would never use with a lady he respected. When he’d bedded her years ago, he’d used similar wicked words, and she’d been aroused by them because she hadn’t known any better. But now she did.
How he talks shows what he thinks of you. You’re just a harlot to him. A trollop.
Horrified awareness shot through her: she was pressed up against the door, draped like a ha’penny whore over Rhys Jones…the man who’d made a whore of her before. Who’d nearly ruined her life. Whocouldruin her daughter’s life if he asked too many questions, got too close.
What the blooming hell am I doing?
