2. Masked Strangers #2
For a man who had claimed not to have waltzed recently, he was remarkably good at it. Not with the polished show of a gentleman who had spent half his life at assemblies. He was simply steady. Strong without holding too tightly.
“You seemed intent upon escape,” he said, staring into her eyes. “When you ran into me.” And then, “Surely, you aren’t here alone?”
The question was not inappropriate. Not quite.
Rose let her gaze drift toward the chandeliers as though considering whether he deserved an answer.
“Would it trouble you if I was?”
His hand went still at her waist.
“No,” he said. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I suppose I ought to be concerned for any young woman gallivanting around Mayfair without protection.”
Rose looked back at him.
She had not felt like a young woman in a very long time. She’d deduced herself to be six and twenty, or thereabouts, and none of those years had been easy ones. Perhaps that was why.
And although she was, in fact, without a chaperone, she was well protected. Even now, a very large man waited in one of The Domus’s carriages outside.
Still, Rose was struck by the sweetness of his answer.
The ballroom seemed to fall away for a moment.
This man, no doubt, wanted her alone. But he also seemed to want to know that she was safe.
Something tightened in her throat.
The music swept them into another turn. And even though they weren’t quite touching, she felt the warmth from his body through the layers of silk, linen, and wool between them.
He smelled clean, with something almost exotic beneath it.
Some spice she didn’t recognize. Or perhaps it was just the night air.
His hand remained firm at her waist, but careful too.
Rose knew desire. She knew how to kindle it in a man. She knew how to recognize it and also how to answer it.
But this was different.
This was not about what he wanted from her.
It was a sudden, startling wish…
A wish she had—to know him.
To see the face beneath his mask. To touch the scarred palm she had noticed with her bare hand. To discover what that grave, beautiful mouth might taste like.
The thought left her almost breathless.
When the music came to an end, the other couples stepped apart.
He did not release her.
Neither did Rose move away.
His silver eyes held hers. And there was something in them now that made her think he had felt it too.
She ought to have remembered why she had come.
Instead, she said, “Would you like to walk in the garden?”
For the briefest moment, his eyes flared.
Then, saying nothing at all, his fingers closed around hers. And with unmistakable purpose, he led her from the dance floor, through the glittering press of guests, and out onto the terrace.
The music faded behind them.
Beyond the terrace, a narrow path wound through the gardens, shadowed by hedges and silvered by moonlight. He did not slow until the house disappeared behind the trees and they reached a small, sheltered gazebo.
Only then did he release her.
Rose turned to him before caution—or sense—could find her again.
She caught hold of his lapels and pulled him toward her, backing herself against the low stone wall at the edge of the gazebo.
“Easy now.” His hands came to her waist, large and warm through the silk of her gown, but light.
A question, perhaps.
In answer, she tugged him closer.
“Stop thinking and touch me.”
Whatever restraint he had been clinging to cracked.
His mouth came down on hers, careful for only an instant, as though he feared startling her. But Rose opened beneath the kiss, and he made a rough, startled sound against her lips.
“Christ.”
Then he kissed her again.
There was nothing measured about him. He kissed her as though each response surprised him—and made him want another.
His hands remained fixed at her waist at first, gripping the silk as though he did not quite trust them elsewhere.
Rose slid her palms over his shoulders.
The breath left him.
She felt it—the sudden tightening of his entire body, the almost violent effort it took for him to remain still.
“Easy now,” he muttered, though she could not tell which of them he was warning.
And in that moment, she felt an odd sense of relief.
He was not waiting for her to make him want her.
He already did. So fiercely that his hands trembled at her waist and every breath seemed to catch when she leaned nearer.
He was not a client. He was simply… hungry.
For her.
And, astonishingly, it left her free to explore her own needs.
Rose tasted him, hot and fierce and somehow sweeter than she had expected. He kissed her as though he could not decide what he wanted most.
His mouth moved from hers to her jaw, but then stopped, as though uncertain where to go next.
Rose tipped her head, offering him the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
When his mouth found her there, Rose’s breath caught.
There was something strangely innocent in the way he learned her—not expertly, but quickly. Each shiver drew him back to the same place. Each broken breath made his hold tighten.
When his teeth grazed her shoulder, she shivered.
He went still.
“Did I hurt you?”
Rose simply shook her head.
“Tell me plain.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” Her fingers tightened in his coat. “So do it again.”
His mouth returned to her shoulder.
The second scrape of his teeth sent another sharp thrill through her, and Rose tore off his mask.
He reached up for her, slipping one finger beneath the knot and freeing it with an ease that made Rose pause.
“Well,” she murmured. “You’re good with your hands.”
“With knots,” he said, tossing the mask aside. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Only knots.”
It was too dark to see more than the shape of his face, the pale gleam of his cheekbone, and the dark intensity of his eyes.
But she could feel him.
The pounding of his heart. The tightness in his hands. The rigid effort it took for him not to crush her against the stone.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
“Why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“You don’t know me.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
He stared at her.
Rose drew him closer.
“After, you’ll go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
One moment.
One reckless, impossible moment.
His hand tightened at her waist.
“By God,” he muttered.
Then he lifted her onto the low wall as though she weighed nothing.
Rose gathered her skirts without thinking, making room for him between her knees.
This never happened.
She never wanted a man.
Not like this.
Not with this sharp, frantic ache beneath her skin. Not with every sensible thought scattering the moment he touched her.
When her fingers found the fastening of his falls, he caught her wrist.
“Hold fast.”
There was command in the words, but strain beneath it.
Rose looked up at him.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“Tell me plain.”
“I want this.”
His jaw flexed.
“I want you,” she said. “I ain’t frightened of you, and I don’t want you gentle.”
For one suspended moment, he did not move.
Then he released her wrist.
“Take what you want, then.”
Rose unfastened him slowly—not to torment him, not to play some clever game, but because her hands had suddenly become unsteady. When she freed him, he stared down at her as though he could not quite believe what she had done.
He was hard beneath her palm. Thick. Hot. Alive in a way that made something low in her body clench.
The man made a broken sound and bent to kiss her again.
His mouth found her throat. Her shoulder. The tops of her breasts as he tugged her bodice down with impatient but reverent hands.
Rose arched against him.
“Touch me,” she said.
He froze.
Then his hand slid beneath her skirts.
Not bold. But tentative. Careful.
His fingers traced the inside of her thigh, moving higher, but when they reached the heat between her legs, he went still.
For one suspended moment, his hand rested there. His breath came harsh against her neck, but he made no attempt to move.
Understanding what he needed, she reached between them and covered his hand with hers.
“Here,” she whispered.
She guided his fingers over her, showing him the pressure she wanted.
A tremble rolled through him.
“Like that?” The raw sound in his voice sent another pulse of need through her.