Chapter Fifteen
Diantha felt the same sweep of emotion she’d felt that night as she led Lucifer toward their curtained hideaway. It was exhilarating, if also terrifying.
Was this why adventurous people embarked on their adventures? So they could feel as though they were lit from within, fearless and strong?
It was dangerously intoxicating, this feeling.
She drew the fabric aside, ducking behind the curtain as he followed. She poked her head out for a moment, just to check on the rumpled scholar, but he wasn’t paying attention to them at all.
They stood next to the window, a draft ruffling Diantha’s hair. It was so very intimate. Like last time.
“Well,”
he said, “here we are. I will let you lead this dance, my lady.”
Her mouth went dry. This was it. This was the moment she had been thinking about, for over a month, despite feverishly trying not to think about it.
The two of them together. Nearly touching—he stood facing her, his hand still in hers, his expression both intense and warm. As though he wanted . . . something, but wasn’t willing to just take it.
I will let you lead this dance, my lady.
She spoke in a whisper. “I am not sure what to do.”
“Are you certain? What do you want to do?”
She thought for a moment, then met his gaze, smiling.
She put her finger to his mouth, sliding it along his lower lip. And then she slipped it inside. “Bite it,” she said.
His eyes darkened, and then he bit. Not hard, but enough to feel the pressure.
Oh. No wonder he’d asked that of her before.
It felt so sensual, the warmth of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth. How he held her gaze as he drew his tongue around her finger.
She shuddered, and he let out a soft laugh. Then he took her hand and slid another one of her fingers inside. Biting that one gently, then licking it.
Everything felt hot. She was grateful now for the draft. Her body felt warm and heavy, as though honey flowed through her veins.
And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
The British Museum has saved hundreds of pounds this Season because a young lady turned into literal fire in one of the exhibit rooms, heating the entire museum for a month.
He drew her fingers out of his mouth, one corner curling up into a knowing smile. “You like this.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded huskier. Lower, somehow.
“I like watching your reaction.”
His eyes remained locked with hers. “What now, Lady Anteroom?”
She snorted, then drew a breath. “I want you to kiss me.”
He nodded. “Excellent. Because that is what I most want to do.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, and it felt as though he’d reached out and touched her there. She shivered again, and he inhaled sharply.
“Tell me again.”
He bent his head so his mouth was at her ear. Still not touching her anywhere, though she could feel his breath on her skin. “Tell me again what you want.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
Now he put his hands on her arms, sliding his palms down until he reached her waist, clasping her there. His hold tightening on her as he kissed her ear. Her jaw.
Her mouth.
Dear lord, but it felt as though everything was too much. Too much sensation, from where his hands were on her body to her lips, which were pressed against his.
Still just pressing, nothing more. Their tongues remained inside their respective mouths. A kiss that was as close to innocent as a kiss between two unmarried people could be.
Which was to say not innocent at all.
His words lit a fire within her as well, just a few simple words, innocuous when taken separately—Tell me again. You like this.—but in this context were setting her ablaze.
And then he whispered against her mouth. “Open for me.”
She did, and his tongue swept inside, meeting hers, and he moved closer so their bodies touched—her breasts against his chest, his legs in between hers.
Her hands were at his waist also. She didn’t recall putting them there, but now that they were, she never wanted to let go.
This was not getting anything out of her system, this was the opposite: all of him infiltrating her entire being, making her feel things. Things she’d never known existed until that night.
How could she live without it?
He intensified the kiss, his mouth moving against hers, his tongue exploring her mouth. And then one hand moved to the small of her back, pressing her even closer to him. Making her ache with the need to touch more.
Right there. Right where her legs began. It felt like it was imperative that something touch her there. She shifted instinctively, trying to make contact, and he groaned against her mouth, his hand reaching down to her arse. Squeezing it as he kept kissing her. With her kissing him right back.
I will let you lead this dance, my lady.
So she splayed her fingers out at his side, caressing his lower abdomen, feeling the muscles shift under her hand. The warmth of his body.
His hand continued to knead and squeeze her arse, his ragged breathing touching her skin.
And then he drew back and looked at her. He was nearly panting, and she realized she was too.
Both of them just staring at one another. His eyes were so dark as to be almost black, the blue of them now resembling a fiercely stormy day.
“Well?”
he asked, his voice hoarse. “Is this extruding those urges?”
She swallowed before replying. “I don’t think it’s helping. Not at all.”
Because all of her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, wanted more of this. Not extrusion, but his intrusion. Of her body, of her self, of everything she was.
She wanted more. Wanted with a ferocious intensity she’d never felt before.
“It’s not helping me either, Lady Anteroom,”
he murmured, then put his mouth to hers and kissed her again.
Lucian felt as though he’d been flattened by a force he hadn’t reckoned on.
Only parts of him were most definitely not flat. His cock throbbed in his trousers, and he felt especially sensitive at every contact point of their bodies—his chest, his hand on her bottom, his mouth.
She was inexperienced, obviously, but fearless. He appreciated that once she’d committed to what they were doing, she was participating with as much vigor and enthusiasm as the most experienced partner.
Her hands were exploring the planes of his body—stroking his arm, then investigating his abdomen, then sliding around to the small of his back.
Meanwhile, her tongue was tangled with his in an erotic duel in which he hoped neither would ever win but just keep competing.
Not that he could spend forever here in the British Museum behind a curtain.
Although, the thought was appealing.
He might have done it, too, if they hadn’t been startled by a sudden crash in the room behind them.
They sprang apart, staring in shock and surprise at one another. Her lips were full and red and faintly moist. But as he regarded her, her tongue snaked out to lick her mouth.
Dear God.
“We should go.”
Her voice was shaky. But at least she could speak; Lucian wasn’t certain he could. His brain felt like it had been scrambled, images of her flooding every synapse.
This was far too much for a kiss and a bit of groping. He was supposed to be experienced, to be the suavely debonair gentleman with all the aplomb.
He was fresh out of aplomb.
He nodded his assent, then took her hand in his and drew the curtain cautiously aside. The scholar was bent over, picking up books, so he leaped out of the alcove, bringing her along with him, then hastened to the door, swinging it open as quickly and noiselessly as he could.
She dropped his hand as they emerged back into the hallway and made their way to the entrance.
His heart was racing, and he knew that it wasn’t because of the sudden noise.
It was her.
The question was, however, was this a momentary obsession or something that would interfere with his plans for pleasure-seeking for the rest of his life? Or was it possible that she could be a permanent part of his life, something he’d never dreamed might actually happen?
If the former, he had experienced that before, albeit not with as much intensity. If the latter?
Well, he would never play his wife false, so his pleasure-seeking would be curtailed in the romance arena. And that was even if they were able to get married in the first place.
He couldn’t believe he felt a longing for that permanent commitment.
And even if he actually did long for it, for one thing, she hadn’t indicated she felt any more for him than a pesky want that she thought could be gotten out of her system.
Secondly, his father would be vehemently opposed to his having anything to do with someone from the Courtenay family, even if that person was more like the duke than Lucian himself.
Finally, even if she did want this, he would not curtail her own adventures. What if this event was only her awakening? Would he be dooming her to a life of circumscription when she wanted to fly far beyond what they would do together? She’d said so herself—I want to do just what I want to do without worrying about anybody else.
“My lord?”
Lucian glanced to her, noting her color was still high, and her eyes sparkled. That was only a kiss, and she looked radiant.
What would she look like when—no, he could not allow himself to think that.
“Yes, apologies, my lady. I was—”
thinking about what you would look like when you orgasmed.
So much for not thinking about it.
“Shall we go?”
he said hurriedly, gesturing to the door. The sooner they weren’t in one another’s company the sooner he could return to normal.
Right now it felt like a scurry of squirrels were racing through his brain, each one carrying a different thought.
“Yes, of course.”
She gave him an odd look, one that seemed to be a mix of disapproval and curiosity, and he wondered if she too had the squirrel thing.
But he could not ask her because that would indicate he was more affected than he should be about their time together. He did not want to make her feel obligated, for God’s sake, and he definitely did not want her to be leery of spending more time with him.
Because if he could not spend time with her again, he might possibly do something ridiculous. Like stand outside her house and wail plaintively or send coded messages through flowers, a practice he’d always found idiotic.
“Shall I escort you home?”
he asked, hearing how stiff he sounded. Because he wasn’t accustomed to saying something other than what he meant, and right now he wanted to ask her how wonderful it had been, and if she felt the same way, and when could they do it again?
But he could not. For all those reasons he’d just thought of.
“I will make my own way home, thank you.”
She still sounded odd, and he felt his chest constrict.
If this was what a love-adjacent feeling felt like, he wanted no part of it. It felt all-consuming, slightly painful, and with far too much uncertainty.
No, thank you. He wanted to be who he’d always been: Lucian, easygoing pleasure-seeker. Because wanting anything more than that would hurt too much when he was disappointed.
He just had to right himself before he saw her again.
“Well, that sounds good.”
What did that even mean, one of the squirrels asked.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
And Lucian turned, walking as quickly as he could before breaking into a run. Before he stayed and told her all the ways he admired her. Before he admitted he was on the brink of falling in love with her.
Diantha watched him walk, then run, away from her.
Had what they’d done been so horrible?
No. She knew it hadn’t been. She knew he’d been enthusiastic about it, nearly as much as she was. His eyes had darkened, and it seemed his gaze kept darting to her mouth, as though reliving their kiss.
Kisses? One kiss? It was hard to tell, there was so much activity. And it wasn’t as though she could ask anyone. How does one measure a kiss? Is it just the time the lips are touching, or the entire segment of kissing behavior?
That would elicit far more interest than she wished for. And who would she ask, anyway?
But his behavior had changed right after. As though something was bothering him. They weren’t close or comfortable enough for her to ask—despite all the kissing and the touching and such, which made it all the more awkward—so she would have to observe him to see how he was the next time they met.
“We didn’t speak about that,”
she murmured, wishing she could run after him to ask when they were to meet again. If only for business. She’d said they should just try to get it out of their systems, and perhaps he had. Their curtained interlude might have been enough for him—after all, he was renowned for his romances, and perhaps their interlude was just another moment in his romance panoply.
Nevertheless, she’d never heard mention of him paired with anybody. In fact, as she thought about it, the only thing people said about him was that he most definitely enjoyed his life. That everyone assumed that meant philandering as well just showed how salacious their world was—and how few people prized an enjoyable life above responsibility and propriety and such.
Was it possible he wasn’t a real rake? That he was . . . a fake rake?
She grimaced to herself, shaking her head at her own ridiculousness.
But she had to admit she still wanted him. She loved how it had felt, hiding away behind that curtain. The intimacy, the warmth, the passion—all of it made her feel as though she was special, even if it was just another curtain interlude to him.
“You are being ridiculous,”
she chided herself. Even so, she felt as though she was walking on clouds, albeit clouds with the distinct possibility of rain. Perhaps she was delirious—from his kisses, from the uncertainty of their future relationship, if it would be more of this or more of that. Or nothing more than what had happened today.
Did she even want to feel delirious? That feeling seemed far too close to the way her parents seemed to experience things—joyfully, zestfully, and with the utmost enthusiasm.
Perhaps, Diantha thought to herself, her parents knew what they were doing.
“Now you’re really being ridiculous,”
she muttered, rolling her eyes at her own thoughts.
She had to admit she was very much looking forward to the next time she saw him—even though there was nothing planned. And she didn’t know if their meeting would be entirely business or business tinged with pleasure.
But no matter what it was, it would all come to an end. Lucifer was as flighty as he was charming. Or perhaps charming because he was flighty.
But he was not someone to have a future with. Not if she wanted to have a calm, measured life. Not if she wanted a family, security, someone to grow comfortably old with.
That was what she wanted, she told herself, if she ever even had the opportunity. Which seemed less and less likely, given the course of her life.
She would not allow herself to think about how delightful a life with someone like Lucifer would be. Because it would also be impossible.