Chapter 11 #2
Her breath hitched. She could feel his gaze on her skin, like sunlight through a windowpane, warm and inescapable.
“What do you want, Mr Hawke?”
He advanced, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “To remind you there’s nothing to fear from Irving, the Moseley brothers, or Templeton.”
“You make those assurances daily.” He was so near, her heart pounded. A strange tingling traced the length of her spine.
“I’m yet to mention the true danger.”
“If it’s to mind the apple garlands, Mr Beattie told me.”
“It’s not the apple garlands, though the same warning applies.” He reached for the tendril of hair brushing her cheek, stroking it and letting it slip through his fingers. “You should avoid the main staircase. You should avoid me, as one might a lone wolf on the plains.”
She could no more avoid him than a moth could a flame.
“Is that your way of saying you’re hungry?”
His tongue skimmed his lips. “Not hungry. Ravenous.”
She swallowed hard.
“But you know that,” he murmured.
“How could I, when you avoid me?”
His fingers trailed along her jaw. The pad of his thumb swept across her mouth. “Perhaps I don’t want you to regret the things we might do. I can’t have you without offering the protection of my name. And I’m the last man you should marry.”
Marry.
The word struck harder than his touch.
She had not asked for vows. Had not asked for protection. She wanted him as he was. Dangerous, unrepentant, hers for a stolen hour.
His hand drifted to the hollow of her throat.
The list slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor.
“I know what desire looks like on a woman, Miss Harland.” His palm skimmed the curve of her breast, as though acquainting himself with its shape. “You want me. The question is … do you want a lesson in sin?”
She understood him well enough. He feared binding her to a future she might resent. Feared waking one day to find her gone and himself damned for it.
But she would not be pitied into safety. No man would decide her fate.
“We were never meant for vows and hearth fires,” she lied. She had imagined both more than once. “Still, there’s no pain in pleasure. And my troubles vanish when I lose myself in you.”
The slow curl of his mouth was pure satisfaction. “Do you need time to consider what comes next, or shall I show you?”
Whatever it was, it would be unforgettable.
But she recalled Lady Soanes’ warning:
Be yourself. Refuse any other role he gives you.
She lifted her chin. “As a consummate romantic, I’ll require more than physical fulfilment, Mr Hawke. Perhaps you’re the one who needs time to consider whether you wish to play this game of lovers.”
He captured her hand, bold as sin, and guided it to the rigid proof of his desire. “Does that feel like the body of a man who needs time to think?”
Her breath caught. He was impossibly hard, the strength of him a heady, terrifying promise straining in his trousers. And heaven help her, she wasn’t afraid.
“I want one night beneath the stars. Hot chocolate. And a secret you’ve never told a soul.” She met his gaze, already imagining the night sky as their canvas. “For that, you can touch me. Anywhere.”
He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “You barter with skill. I see no reason we can’t both be thoroughly satisfied. Tomorrow night, then.”
“Why wait? The stars should be out tonight.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, then away as though fighting some internal war. “I have a prior engagement. There’s no avoiding it.” He didn’t give her time to air her disappointment. “If you’d permit a late call, I’ll come to you the moment I return.”
She smiled to herself. He wanted this. Wanted her. The certainty of it eased something sharp and restless inside her. “Until tonight, then. I’ll make the chocolate and have chairs and blankets ready.”
He nodded, then reached for her hips, drawing her flush against him. “I’ll need a parting gift. Something to convince me you’re as eager as I am. Something to tame the beast until—”
She silenced him with her mouth.
There was no hesitation. No coy retreat. She didn’t wait for him to coax her lips apart, for the gentle brush of his tongue against the seam.
She claimed him.
Her arms looped around his neck, her fingers sliding into the dark waves at his nape. She kissed him like she meant to drown in him, her tongue urgent, searching, matching the slow, desperate roll of their hips.
He groaned, deep and guttural.
There was nothing quite like the sound of Mr Hawke lost. It curled through her like silk drawn over bare skin, an intoxicating reward for every kiss, every tease of tongue and teeth.
His hands smoothed down to her bottom, gripping tight, pulling her closer still, letting her feel every inch of hard, unyielding muscle.
The pressure built low in her belly, a delicious throb pulsing between her legs, as heady as strong wine. Her body arched, desperate for more friction, more of him.
One kiss wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
The thought ought to terrify her. No other man had ever made her feel like this. So desirable he could barely control himself.
“Hawke!” Mr Ramsey’s sharp voice cut through her fevered thoughts.
She tore her mouth from Mr Hawke’s, but he pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, “Hush, love.”
She could barely catch her breath. Fire smouldered in his eyes, the same fire that scorched every inch of her skin.
“We should be grateful for the interruption,” he murmured at her ear, then swept his mouth across hers. “Else we’d have skipped the stars and chocolate.”
She slowly unlinked her arms from around his neck, her hands trailing over his shoulders before settling on his chest.
“I like this game,” she said, telling herself that’s all it was, that this connection between them would fade. “And I look forward to the next round.”
He stepped back, his wry smile mirroring her own disappointment. “I knew you’d be trouble before we reached the dance floor.”
“You seem to like trouble.”
“Perhaps a little too much.”
“I imagine you tire easily. This should be no different.”
He studied her, perhaps trying to determine if her feelings matched her words. They didn’t. They were as far apart as London and Bengal.
“Hawke. Are you there?” Mr Ramsey again, though he didn’t enter the cottage.
Could he sense the tension from outside? Was he afraid he might find them flushed and straightening their clothes?
Mr Hawke should have been striding out the door. Yet something kept him in the cottage.
She felt it too. The unwillingness to part. That quiet fear this moment might be the only happiness either of them would ever know.
He kissed her again, a firm, lingering press of lips, like a soldier heading off to war. Little did she know how true that would soon feel.
Mr Ramsey called once more. This time his voice pierced through the haze of heat and hope, chilling her to the bone.
“Mr Irving is back. He brings a contract.”