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Gwen’s awareness narrowed to the press of their palms.

The crackling fire, the cheerful splash of colours in his chambers, the lingering scents of supper—all faded until there was only him. Only the intense concentration in his eyes. The dizzying scent of his expensive cologne. The warmth of his body easing closer, until the breath from his parted lips warmed her skin with every swift exhalation. When his gaze lifted back to hers, his expression was so heated with intent, so heavy with longing, that her next breath fled in a soft rush, as though the air had been pressed from her lungs.

He lowered his forehead to hers, easing his hand free of hers to skate his fingers lightly up the inside of her wrist, over the firm muscles of her forearm, and higher still until the heat of his palm cupped her shoulder. He paused there, his thumb dipping in a tender caress over her collarbone, drawing out a delicate shiver before settling opposite his other hand at her jaw. When Michael finally dipped his head to brush a light kiss against the swell of her lower lip, Gwen trembled for want of his mouth.

At that first instant of contact, Michael went utterly still, the long seconds measured only by the heavy thud of her heart. And then his lips began to move over hers, slow, patient touches of featherlight contact that flared like tiny sparks of firelight wherever he kissed. He grazed the corner of her mouth, traced the slight bow of her upper lip, then nudged the lower, catching and teasing the sensitive flesh with soft, searching kisses that sent a rush of tingling delight through her veins.

Gwen reached for him then, fingers tangling in his hair, body arching until she was pressed against his tense, muscular frame from chest to thigh.

A rough, helpless sound escaped him, muffled by her mouth, and then they were both moving at once, desire catching and gripping, as she parted her lips and he met her hungrily. It was… oh, my.

She’d had a beau once, before Walter, a lad she’d grown up with. When he’d taken up with a whaling ship, she’d thought she would miss him. Miss the attention and affection he gave her. Instead, life had quietly settled back into what it had been before that first shy kiss, like a stone dropped into a pond. A ripple, then stillness once more.

But this…

She could not imagine still waters existing for her again after this.

CHAPTER 9

Michael

Christ, but he should have known better.

He should have known Gwen would never be content to remain passive, accepting what was meant to be a gentle, reassuring kiss without surging forward and setting him ablaze in the process.

She moaned into his mouth, low and throaty, without the slightest hint of inhibition, her tongue tangling with his and muddling his thoughts with its slow, sensual slide and sweet, flirty flicks. Pressed together as they were, he could feel her nipples through the layers of cloth, tightening into wanton, lickable buds.

He shouldn’t have kissed her at all. But when she’d looked up at him, done the unthinkable, inviting him to see all the insecurities she guarded so fiercely, all reason had deserted him. Protecting her—holding her steady through that brief lapse of certainty—had eclipsed every other thought. The urge to be whatever she needed had been overpowering. But right as it felt in the moment, this behaviour was unpardonable and would undoubtedly hurt her in the end. And that time was all too soon.

By this time tomorrow, she’d hate him.

Knowing it was likely the last time she’d ever willingly let him this close, he hadn’t found the strength to resist. But it had to end here. Until now, every move he’d made had belonged to the game. Ruthless, perhaps, but fair. When everything was said and done, he wanted Gwen to know she’d lost because the board had favored him from the start and he’d played it well. He hadn’t needed to make it more uneven than it already was.

Tonight, when she’d stood on the verge of toppling her own king, Michael had been shocked to discover he couldn’t bring himself to apply the final pressure. Never mind that preying upon her deepest fears would have been the simplest path to victory. He simply could not do it. She deserved an honorable defeat—a queen left alone on the board, fighting to the bitter end. But this... kissing her… this wasn’t strategy. It was selfishness. A wound inflicted for no reason beyond his own weakness.

Michael shifted their position, intending to put some space between them but somehow ended up pulling her closer instead. She squirmed in eager appreciation, the press of those deliciously inviting curves making it increasingly difficult to care about inconsequential things like his conscience.

Salvation arrived in the form of a creaky step, as one of the men made their way up the stairs. However unlikely their discovery, the faintest chance of intrusion acted like a wedge in the wall that had kept the thick haze of lust separate from the crisp brightness of common sense, prying it open just enough to let his reason trickle through.

Michael gentled his kisses, easing back.

When he finally opened his eyes, her smile, kiss-reddened and triumphant, stole his breath. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to let her win—something he’d never considered doing in his life. The yard, his work, he wanted to forget all of it. Protect that smile with every fiber of his being for every second of his remaining life.

Gwen licked her lips and stepped back, glancing over her shoulder at the door. “Why didn’t you come for supper?”

He knew the question was for the benefit of whomever might be passing through the hallway, but for a long moment he could only stare dazedly at her face, his thoughts still struggling to work their way free of the sticky-sweet mixture of lust and… something else… coating his brain like the unfortunate victim of a lemonade spill. Finally, he recalled the diary, still open on his bed. He glanced in that direction, inviting her gaze to follow.

“I’ve engaged in a bit of light reading. It’s Walter’s.”

Although Gwen had been the one to show him Walter’s diaries, her expression instantly darkened. Michael could be in no doubt as to why. He’d scarcely come across an entry where Walters’ distaste for his wife was not patently obvious. He was a weak man, threatened by both her intelligence and her beauty in equal measure.

At her lingering unease, that queer impulse to comfort her rose up again with such force that he found himself touching her before he had scarcely realised what he was about. Nothing excessive, mind you. Just the briefest squeeze of her shoulder before drawing back. It was perfectly acceptable. Reassurance fell well within the boundaries of the role he was meant to be playing.

This was fine.

He needn’t examine every motivation so closely or be quite so swift in meting out self-recrimination for what was, in truth, a very brief, innocuous gesture. Unlike that kiss. A massive, unpardonable mistake, that was. The smell of her blasted soap was caught in his nose like dust he couldn’t sneeze out fast enough. Had any of the other women he’d been with smelled that alluring?

He shoved the thought away.