His eyes lit and he caught her elbow, hauling her a little closer, molding her against his chest as he towered over her in a way that should have been intimidating. But it wasn’t. Because this was Oscar, and she knew who he was. What he was. She knew his edges, as well as his curves and she knew she never had to fear him.
“Why do youthinkI did it, Imogen?”
She gasped at the implication. The tension that had been hanging between them, forever unnamed but for desire, seemed to increase even more. There was hardly space to keep them apart. His lips so close she could feel the heat of them linger on her own.
“Oscar,” she whispered, and felt him tense as his arms came around her.
“No,” he murmured back, and then his mouth found hers.
* * *
Oscar wasn’t proud of the tactic he had employed against Imogen, but what choice did he have? His overly emotional response had caused trouble not just with Roddenbury, but now he’d been on the verge of the kind of confession to Imogen that would be incredibly dangerous. If they brought their hearts into this matter, there would be no end to the damage.
So he kissed her. But when her arms wound around his neck and she gasped out a moan against his lips, strategy was forgotten. Everything was forgotten but her, just as it always was. The woman could do that, more than any other before her. She could tie him up in knots with her smile or laughter, or just by looking at him from across the room. And yes, that had everything to do with how much he wanted her. And it had everything to do with so much more than desire.
But he pushed that away. He had to push it far away. Concentrate on the element he could control. The element he could accept and separate as something different. Something less dangerous.
Even though it was just as potent. When Imogen’s fingers bunched against his back, when she lifted toward him with a mewl that vibrated on his lips, his body’s response was more than potent. What he felt was powerful, changing. A need unlike any other because in the past need had been about pleasure. This need was specific to this woman in this moment, and nothing else in the world mattered.
So he backed her across the room, toward the settee they had abandoned a few moments before. He tangled his fingers into her hair, holding her steady as he lowered her onto the cushions. When his weight covered her and she lifted against him, he nearly came unmanned right then and there.
But this was about regaining control, not surrendering it further, so he resisted the urge to just take, and instead continued kissing her as he hitched her skirts up. When his fingers brushed the fabric of her stockings, his nails lightly abrading her skin through the silk, she jolted beneath him and let out a gasping cry that hit him directly in the cock.
God, how he wanted her. In his blood, in his skin, in his mind and every inch of his body. Only having her would stave off the need, and only for a short while. That desire would return, as hard and as heavy as the first time, within hours, sometimes minutes.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her throat, and then he began to kiss lower. He let his mouth glide over her breasts, still hidden beneath her pretty gown. Over her stomach as he slid to his knees on the settee before her. Down to her thighs as he dragged her to the edge of the couch and pushed her dress up onto her stomach.
Her tugged the slit on her drawers wide and sucked in a whiff of her sex. Clean and sweet, musky with her need. He wanted to taste that flavor on his tongue. He wanted to feel her ripple with release as he ate her.
She stared down at him from her perch on the settee. Their eyes met, and he saw the wicked spark in her eyes. She pushed her legs open wider and reached down to spread herself for him.
He was fully clothed and had hardly touched her, but he could have spent in that moment. Instead he leaned in and pressed his fingers against hers, forcing her even wider before he leaned in and licked her.
She jolted against him with a gasp, and he doubled the pressure of his tongue as he repeated the action. How fast could he make her come? That was the question. He counted the seconds in his mind as he sucked her clitoris, swirling his tongue around the nub just the way he knew she liked it. Her breath shortened and she began lifting into his mouth, seeking what he offered, grinding to garner more pleasure.
She jerked against him at last, the waves of her release rippling on his tongue as he continued to stimulate her and force her to cling to the edge of the settee. At last she fell back, panting with relief. Only then did he unfasten the placard on his trousers, freeing himself.
She looked down, licking her lips as he stroked himself once, twice. She opened wider, a wicked groan exiting her mouth as he aligned his hard body to her slick one. He entered her in a long thrust. She was tight around him, perfect and heated and made for him.
He braced himself against the settee cushions, lowering his face close to hers but not kissing her, even when she lifted toward him. He expected her to whimper or demand, but instead she chuckled. A low, rough sound that made him grind his hips in a circle against her.
“Hard,” she demanded, meeting his gaze. Her voice was softer now, more tender despite the question. “Hard, please.”
He lost all sense at that demand, said so sweetly. He lost control for the third time that day. But this kind of surrender was perfect. He tangled his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back so she’d watch him the entire time he took her. He placed his opposite hand against her throat, squeezing ever so slightly and loving how her body tightened around him as she moaned.
And then he did as she asked. He fucked her hard, losing himself in the never-ending edge toward release, losing himself in how her eyes glazed over and her cries echoed in the library. He lost himself in the grip of her pussy and the slickness as she came a second time, clawing at him and screaming his name.
His own pleasure arced, like lightning in his veins, and he only barely withdrew from her and came against his hand, making a keening cry that joined with hers before he collapsed against her and kissed her once more.
If he expected her to perhaps broach the topic of Roddenbury or the future or his emotional reasons for seeking out danger, she didn’t. She just wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. As if she knew as well as he did that nothing good could come from exploring a future that couldn’t be. A surrender that couldn’t be.
A love that couldn’t be.
And even though he should have been pleased by that silent capitulation, even though it should have made him feel better that she wouldn’t find a way to break both their hearts, there was something hollow about the victory. Somehow he’d lost, even if he’d won.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was plan for the meeting with her friend in a few days, and how and where he would put Imogen next in the hopes of saving her life.
Chapter 19
