Page 40 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“I do want you, sweetheart. I want you more than you know. But I can’t.” Atticus’s voice was dark and hoarse as he looked away from her. Octavia’s heart sank. Had she done something that repulsed him?

“I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with…have I done something…” she choked out, her breathing labored.

“Bloody hell,” he ground out.

In seconds, he was bending over her, and with a suppressed violence, he caught her hand and pressed her palm against his thick erection. He was so hard, and the material of his trousers was stretched tight against his flesh, outlining the beautiful shape of him.

“Does this feel like I don’t want you, my beautiful, sweet Aphrodite? There’s nothing wrong with you. You are perfection,” he choked out. Eyes closed, his breathing quickened as he pressed her hand even harder against his arousal. “You have no idea how much agony I’m in right now. My cock is making me painfully aware of how easy it would be to end my suffering if I just give way to you.”

His raw, unrestrained language made her cheeks grow hot. The hunger in his voice only strengthened the intensity of her body’s silent cry for his touch. With tentative fingers, Octavia explored his erection. Atticus shuddered at her slow caress, and his hand fell away from hers to dig his fingers into the bed covers in a visible sign of desperation.

Elation flowed through her at his response, and she slowly ran her fingers along his steely length with increased pressure. Another hard shudder rocked him, and it encouraged her to stroke him again. This time, her touch ripped a low groan out of him. It was a sound that could only be defined as one of torment. Ragged breaths of air blew in and out of him, and hope sprang to life inside her breast. Was it possible her touch could make him yield?

“I want to see you, not just touch you,” she whispered before her fingers began to undo the buttons of his trousers.

“Christ Jesus, you don’t know what you’re asking of me, Octavia.”

His hand wrapped around her wrist in a grip that was almost painful as he stopped her. Raw hunger and passion pounded its way through every word he uttered. They possessed the powerful rumble of distant thunder preceding an approaching storm.

“Isn’t it enough to know you have the power to reduce me to a state of insatiable lust? That you arouse a ravenous need to feast on you in every wicked way I can think of. I want to do acts with you that are so wicked they’ll shock you. I want to teach you how pleasurable sin can be. But I can’t. I can’t take what you’re offering, sweetheart, because I won’t be able to undo it.”

With an abrupt movement, Atticus straightened upright and put distance between them once more. The passionate hunger in his gaze made her heart pound frantically as her own need for him became a feverish heat across her skin. It was a warmth that would erupt into flames if she could just convince him how much she wanted him. How much she wanted this.

“But don’t you understand?” she whispered. “I want to be wicked with you. I’ve wanted you to touch me since the first night I saw you at Lyndham House.”

“Lyndham—but that party was several weeks before the Ealing affair,” he choked out.

“Yes.” Octavia nodded and looked away from him, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “I went home that night and dreamed about you doing all manner of things to me. Wicked things I know I’d enjoy very much.”

“Christ almighty.” The harsh, gravelly sound rolling out of him held a distinct note of anguish that alarmed her. At his low cry, Octavia jerked her gaze back to him. A pained expression darkened his handsome face, before his jaw hardened and a tic formed in his cheek. “To think all this—it changes nothing, Octavia. I won’t do it.”

“I don’t understand. Why—”

“Because you’ll regret it afterward,” he said with a quiet assurance that made her heart sink.

“That’s not true,” she exclaimed. “I want you. You want me. Why would I regret you making love to me?”

“I know you better than you realize, Octavia. You will regret it, and I don’t want you to regret anything where I’m concerned.”

Atticus’s mouth became a hard, thin line of resolve the moment Octavia rejected his words with a shake of her head. Something undefinable flashed across his face, but there was no time to decipher it as he turned away from her. Without another word, he strode out of her room again, the door slamming closed behind him.

The echo of another door crashing shut made her mouth tighten with irritation, and she glared at the barrier Atticus had placed between them. The man was the devil himself with that sinfully wicked voice, handsome face, and dear God the size of him. Octavia closed her eyes at the memory of how hard and thick he’d been beneath her hand. She’d been desperate to see him naked, but even though he’d refused, it was still possible to visualize the powerful beauty of his arousal.

At that precise moment, she’d wanted him more than anything else she’d ever longed for in her entire life. He’d wanted to prove he desired her, but he’d done more than that. A small smile tilted her lips. Unfortunately for the Duke of Ashurst, the man had exposed a chink in his armor. Atticus didn’t know her quite as well as he thought he did.

He knew she was stubborn, but her stubbornness fell far short of her relentless determination when pursuing a goal. Octavia knew it would be a battle of wills, and it was a battle she had no intention of losing.

Chapter 12

“Goddamnit,” Atticus snarled as his bedroom door vibrated with a savage intensity inside its frame from the strength with which he slammed it shut.

Flinging himself down onto his bed, he draped his arms over his eyes, willing his cock to stop insisting he go back to Octavia’s room. What terrible sin had he committed that would make the almighty look down from the heavens and toy with him like this?

Even Lucifer might be inclined to take pity on him for this trial by fire, and that’s precisely what it was. A moment ago, he’d almost given way to Octavia’s invitation. But when she’d explained how she’d wanted him ever since the Lyndham soirée, a bolt of pain had blasted into him with the force of a log crushing his lungs.

For the lack of a simple introduction, he was living in the flames of hell right now. How had he not seen her that night or any other night? More importantly, why, in the name of all that was holy, hadn’t someone introduced them before the night of the Ealing affair? Atticus’s fist slammed into the mattress.

“Fuck.”