Could it be love?
No. Not possible. She couldn’t love a pompous, distrusting, frustrating, gorgeous nineteenth century duke.
It wasn’t possible.
Notpossible.
Ah, hell.
Finding her voice, she whispered, “Logan, how could I regret something so beautiful? I’ve never felt so cherished, so alive before. Why would I regret that?”
His hand tightened on her chin, his black eyes darkened, and his face hardened.
“Do you mean that?” His gently pleading voice broke with restrained desire.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Yes, I?—”
His hungry mouth captured hers.
Desire, fast and hot, rose within her, pushing for the surface, eager for release, greedy for his passion. She leaned into him, and he deepened the kiss, sliding his wet tongue into her mouth, probing for her tongue, enticing it to plunge into an erotic dance. Moaning, she grabbed handfuls of his coat.
With a groan he put his arms around her, tucked his hands under her bottom, and hauled her from the back of her horse.
He settled her in front of him. Pulling up her skirts, she wound her legs around his waist, and her arms around his neck, and pressed her mouth, hot and ravenous, against his. His mouth against hers was heaven, his erection against the sensitive mound between her legs was hell.
What in the world are we doing?the voice in her head shrilled.
They were on the back of a horse for God’s sake.
His fervent kiss slowed, and after one final lingering, bone-melting lick, he pulled away.
When their gazes met, what she saw shook her to the core, a desire so strong it captivated her. Raw, blazing, possessiveness stole her breath.
Totally, utterlyhis.
“If not regret in your expression, what was it?” His voice was heavy with unspent passion.
She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand; itwasregret, but not for what we’d done. More for what I’d asked.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” His anxious expression warmed her heart. He reminded her of a little lost puppy, head tilted to the side, wide eyes begging for a bone.
She sighed. “Can you put me back on my horse? I can’t talk to you with your fireplace poker between my legs.”
His rich laughter sizzled through her.
Lifting her, he settled her back on Gamehen.
When she held the reins again, she explained, “When we were lying in bed, after the sex, I asked about the woman in the portrait.”
“I remember,” he said and his expression hardened, becoming guarded.
“I asked you who she was, if you loved her. You didn’t answer. I knew then I’d overstepped my bounds, and had hurt you by bringing it up. That’s why you didn’t say anything. I ruined an intimate moment by opening old wounds—maybe wounds that aren’t even scabbed over yet. It might still be a fresh wound, kind of like you’d just been cut, and the cut is still bleeding so the scab can’t form yet?—”
“Haven.”
“Yes?”
“Take a breath.” Amusement laced his voice.
