Chapter 9 A Lack of Control
A LACK OF CONTROL
For one suspended moment, Julian did nothing.
This—this—was a mistake.
He had expected Miss Belle to run. To dart out of the forest, mount her perfect little horse, pack up her bags, and never return.
Instead, she was kissing him.
Softly. Deliberately. As though he had not just handed her cause for fear.
He should step back. Create distance. Give her a cold stare.
But her mouth was warm. Certain. Unhesitating.
Although tempted since the first time he’d looked into her eyes, since the moment her freckles and firelit hair brought color into a world he’d intentionally kept gray, he’d convinced himself he could remain unmoved.
But this!
Julian’s hands curled at his sides, fingers flexing once, twice. Do nothing. Do not answer. Do not—
Her lips parted. Sweet and warm. A yielding body pressed against his chest.
And the discipline he had so carefully cultivated did not shatter as he half expected.
It only… bent.
Julian caught her—not roughly, but decisively—one hand at her waist, the other braced against the tree behind her, as though he could contain the moment by anchoring it. As though the bark beneath his palm might steady him.
This was no delicate wisp of a girl, but a woman—built to be held, to be tasted, to be devoured. And God help him, he wanted to do all of it.
Her voice hitched, a needy little cry, soft and involuntary. The sound went straight through him.
“Rosamund.” Just a breath.
His mouth claimed hers this time, no longer a question but an answer he should not be giving.
Her fingers slid into his hair, then forward, tentative at first, as though mapping him. Across his temple. Along his jaw.
And then—
Over the ridges of his scar.
The contact was light—almost reverent—but it sent a shock through him all the same, sharp and disorienting. His breath caught low in his chest and his skin burned beneath her fingertips, not with pain, but with awareness.
Her thumb traced the uneven line as though it were simply another feature of his face—no more alarming than the curve of his mouth.
She did not flinch. Did not hurry. Did not withdraw.
The honesty of it disarmed him.
Something inside him cracked—not loudly, not all at once—but enough to let something dangerous through. Want. Vulnerability. The terrifying knowledge that he did not wish to be untouched anymore.
His control did not shatter.
But it strained.
And for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Julian was no longer certain that holding himself together was the thing he most desired.
He pulled her closer, turning the kiss into something fiercer. Something that burned.
And in that fire, his mind betrayed him.
He saw her straddling him in the chair by the hearth, skirts tangled around her waist, her sturdy hips rocking against him with a boldness that matched her fearless tongue. Saw her flushed and breathless, freckles blazing across her cheeks as she whispered his name like a challenge.
He saw her sprawled across his workbench, shavings caught in the copper strands of her braid, her generous curves pressed to the scarred wood he had shaped with his own hands. Strong, grounded—nothing ornamental about her. Nothing fragile. She would not wilt beneath him.
She would meet him.
The visions came in a rush so vivid he could scarcely draw breath. Her hair loose over his pillow. Her laughter swallowed by his mouth. The weight of her settling over him like something meant.
Beast, his mind whispered.
And perhaps it was true.
Because when his hand closed over the swell of her breast through her gown, when he squeezed and felt the answering arch of her body, the sound she made—soft, startled, wanting—nearly shattered what remained of his restraint.
He was not imagining now.
He was holding her. Ravishing her.
A sound he scarcely recognized rumbled out of his chest.
Beast. The word hissed through him again.
He tore his mouth from hers only to trail desperate kisses along her jaw, following the faintly scattered freckles down the line of her throat. The hand on her back was sliding down, bunching the fabric of her skirts, ready to bare her to him—
But then—branches snapping. Followed by a loud bark.
Julian released her at once, stepping back as though scorched, and for a moment, he was lost to all but the rushing of blood in his ears, emptiness in his arms, the straining in his cock.
Angus bounded into the clearing, tail wagging, tongue lolling, reminding him where he was. What he was.
Julian raked a hand over his face, the roughness of scarred skin beneath his palm only fueling his curses.
She had seen all of him.
She had… touched him.
“Go back to the house,” he ordered hoarsely, before meeting her eyes.
She stood frozen, cheeks flushed, lips trembling.
“Now!”
She backed away, gathered her skirts, and then turned and ran.
What had he been thinking—allowing her to stay longer than he’d first agreed? Entertaining her questions. Entertaining her.
Yes, he understood her reasons. Even agreed with some of them. His reputation mattered—not for himself, but for the estate, for the people who depended upon it.
But there were other ways to manage that.
He could have gone to London. Endured the stares, the whispers. Made an appearance before Parliament, reassured those who questioned his competence. His sanity.
Julian stooped for his discarded jacket, shoving his arms through the sleeves with jerky motions.
And Angus sat at his side, tail sweeping slowly across the ground, gazing up with an adoration Julian didn’t deserve.
He dragged a hand through his hair, shirt half-buttoned, breath still ragged.
“What the hell was that?” he muttered hoarsely, more to himself than to the hound.