She swallowed hard, for he was edging into her space now. Just as he had when he kissed her all those nights ago. She found herself staring up at his lips, picturing them sliding over hers again until she could no longer bear her own weight from the pleasure of it.
His hand reached out and he cupped her cheek gently. She shivered out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
“Why are you running?” he asked, his voice so low now. Rough.
She shifted which made his fingers slide across her skin, sending waves of sensation through her entire body. “I-I’m not running.”
“Oh, yes you are,” he corrected. “I know the look of it. Why, Sophie?”
“Because he wasn’t…they aren’t…he wasn’t…” she stammered, finding herself unable to complete any of those sentences. Finding they all ended with one word:you. She ran because none of those men was Rowan.
And he seemed to understand that, read it in her expression or her mind. His eyes went wider, his fingers bunched against her cheek, and then he wrapped an arm around her waist. He tugged and she fell against him, lifted her hand to his chest to support herself as she looked up into his eyes.
He held her there for just a moment and then he bent his head, closer and closer, until his lips brushed hers. Unlike the first time he kissed her, when there was something vivid and wild and out of control in the act, this time he was gentle. Almost too gentle. He was teasing, and frustration grew in her at the knowledge. She wanted more. She wanted that animal desire that had coursed between them the last time.
She wanted to feel again, but she was so inexperienced that she had no idea how to manage the kiss in that direction. But she thought of that night when he’d first kissed her. He had put his tongue inside her mouth and it had felt so good.
So she slowly parted her lips and then traced the crease of his mouth with her tongue. He jolted in surprise, but his mouth came open and she took the opportunity. Once again he tasted of mint and sherry, of desire and danger, and she tilted her head to get more of it. More of him.
He made a low, animal sound in his throat and then he gathered her closer before he drove his tongue against hers, the wolf reawakened by her boldness. She lifted into him, going on instinct, going on pleasure, and felt one of his hands trail down her side, across her hip, and then he shockingly grabbed her bottom and ground her against him.
Sensation exploded through her and she let out a cry against his mouth. And in that moment there was another sound in the air. Voices.
He pulled away, all but shoving her behind his back to offer her protection with his body as they both stared in the direction of the sound. People were coming down the walkway toward them. Far enough away that they very likely hadn’t seen the shocking things they’d been doing. Close enough that an interception was only moments away.
Sophie stared up at him, at his jaw clenched tight and his eyes focused on those who would intrude upon their moment. He looked dangerous. He looked perfect.
“Please, I can’t…I can’t…” she whispered.
His focus jerked back to her. He held her stare for what felt like an eternity, then nodded, caught her hand and drew her away from the path. She followed wordlessly, trusting him to take her someplace safe. Someplace quiet. Someplace where she could regather herself before she was forced to return to being Lady Yes.
They twisted and turned, and at last he came to a stop in front of the hothouse situated in the back corner of the estate grounds. He glanced toward her, uncertain, it seemed, in this moment.
“Is this…all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “I only need to regather myself.”
He said nothing more, but pushed the door open and motioned her inside. The evening air had been cool and dry, and she gasped at the muggy heat inside the glass building. All around them were flowers, tended by Lady Waterfield, herself, if gossip was to be believed. Sophie sucked in a deep breath of fragrant air before she heard the door behind her shut softly.
And now they were alone.
She turned toward him. He was standing five feet away, just at the door, and all he was doing was watching her. Careful, cautious…but also heated.
Inescapable.
“Perhaps this was a mistake,” she said, more to herself than to him.
He arched a brow. “You didn’t want to be in the garden, did you? Nor return to the party? Why question yourself now?”
She clenched her teeth. “Because I’m expected to be there.”
He shrugged. “Expectation is overrated.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Says the man who lives up to his own reputation of perfection.”
“My reputation?” he repeated, amusement in his tone.
“Yes,” she said. “You are the bored, lay-about third son of an earl, aren’t you? Off seducing women in gardens?”
