Chapter 13 Another Visitor
ANOTHER VISITOR
Julian was still hard. Achingly so. Harder than he could ever remember being.
Her taste lingered on his tongue, sweeter and richer than his favorite port.
He could drown in her—God help him, he wanted to drown in her—listening to those little cries, feeling the flutter of her muscles against his mouth, plump flesh tightening around his ears, the desperate tug of her fingers in his hair.
After feeling her body unravel beneath his hands and mouth, the need in him had sharpened—that he rise, press her against that door, and this time, lose himself completely inside her.
But he did not. Rather, he remained where he was, lost in Rosamund’s skirts, her thighs resting on his shoulders, trembling.
He inhaled slowly, resting his cheek against the inside of her leg. Strong but warm. And softer than rose petals.
He had let passion take him.
Reluctantly, he shifted, easing her delicious legs from his shoulders with careful hands. He stayed close, steadying her as her knees wavered. His palms lingered as he smoothed her skirts back into place, then traced the line of her hip as he rose to face her.
Still hard. Still wanting.
Her bodice had fallen, baring the most glorious bosom he could have imagined—creamy white, rose-tipped, full, more than a handful. Faint pink marks stood out on her skin, his marks, from his hands, from his mouth. Each curve rose and fell with her uneven breaths.
But it wasn’t her body that sent his heart racing.
It was her face—her cheeks flushed, brilliant gold and red hair tumbling loose, lips swollen from having been thoroughly kissed.
And her eyes—blue, wide, shining with wonder and something perilously close to trust.
How was it possible for her to trust him?
He tried for a scowl. Tried to summon the beast the world believed him to be. But then—
She smiled at him. A small, wobbly, utterly devastating smile.
“Well,” she said, her voice still husky. “That was unexpected.”
And he couldn’t help but smile back at her.
How the hell had this happened?
She trusted him—against all common wisdom, by God, she trusted him.
He should excuse himself. From the dining hall. From the manor. Hell, from the damned estate itself. And not return until he knew she was gone.
But instead, his hands betrayed him.
He reached out and drew up her bodice, then her puffed little sleeves, tugging the fabric to cover her bare shoulders. His thumb brushed the torn seam and he stilled, memory flashing—his own hands, his own hunger, ripping what he had no right to touch.
Julian needed–desperately–to put a stop to this.
This… whatever the devil it was.
Rosamund Belle didn’t just pose the temptation of flesh. She threatened his very way of life.
She made him imagine things he had long ago forbidden himself to imagine.
Of sharing not only his bed, but his life… Of laughter in these halls, of lively conversation over dinner.
Companionship. Belonging.
And he could not—must not—allow it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words hoarse, inadequate.
He never should have invited her in. For her sake. She would have been safer in the woods, in the company of wolves, than here with him.
And yet… she wasn’t running. She stood before him still, mouth shining, cheeks flushed, eyes lowered…
“Ahem.”
For one wild heartbeat, Julian ignored it. Pretended he hadn’t heard. His arms stayed locked around her, unwilling to let her go, unwilling to release this fleeting, impossible perfection.
“Your services are no longer required this evening, Finch,” he ground out, not even looking toward the door.
“I… I realize that, Your Grace,” came the footman’s cautious reply. “It’s only that—there is a gentleman here. Says he is a duke. Demanding to collect his, er, his sister.”
His what?
The words hung in the air. A duke? Demanding…?
Rosamund had stiffened and it was that, even more, that sent Jullian’s world tilting.
“Miss Belle, is there something you need to tell me?”
Her stillness. Her silence. Her refusal, suddenly, to meet his eyes.
“Who are you?” But he didn’t really need to ask.
By God.
Her brother was a duke.
And he—beast that he was—had just debauched her in his damned dining room.