Chapter Eight #2
Gazing between his eyes, she noticed one had a gold striation that reminded her of a shooting star, that for some reason brought to mind Lucifer’s fall from Heaven.
Was this an offering from Lucifer, sent to tempt her after her failed betrothal?
Her mind shouted caution, but something in her chest had never been more curious.
It was that curiosity that forced her head down into a nod and though his face remained impassive, the striation in his left eye pulsed.
Upon the conclusion of the dance, he offered a bow and leaned near, his voice dropping low as he murmured, “The library then. Perform your necessary rounds and meet me there.”
Petra gave another faint nod as her thoughts began to race. Why was she courting ruin thus? And so soon after her public humiliation. Yet she was never going to say no to his request.
And with that, Wolf was gone, leaving Petra to ponder the immense power of men with green eyes who vaguely resembled Lucifer.
* * *
The Stillwell library was a thing of beauty. Even in his singular focus on meeting Lady Petra, Wolf took the time to admire his surroundings. Lined with shelves of rich mahogany, the roaring fire danced across the wood, making the room appear a lava-like red.
“At least the books will be warm,” Wolf muttered to himself, eyes darting to the hearth.
“Very thoughtful of you to consider the comfort of the books, Lord Wolfridge.”
Abruptly jolted from his thoughts by the lady who now occupied the very core of his unbidden longing, Wolf stood mesmerized by the manner in which the firelight bathed her with ethereal radiance.
She already possessed a naturally fairy-like nature, having slipped silently into the chamber to manifest before him like an apparition.
Yet, the dancing red-gold illumination cast an undeniable aura of raw sensuality upon her visage, imbuing the moment with a potent, almost tangible sense of the forbidden.
Yet she was no longer forbidden. Mayhap he had watched her all these years not in some noble need to protect John but because she always intrigued him. Perhaps, deep down, he suspected there was more lurking behind her dutiful facade that called to him.
As the lady turned the full weight of her mahogany gaze toward him, the flickering light of the hearth danced across those expressive orbs, imbuing them with a quality as radiant and molten as liquid gold.
Peering into that unwavering look, Wolf was seized by a revelation so simple and so profound that it all but knocked the breath from his lungs.
She trusted him.
Petra trusted him.
Wolf could count on one finger the number of people in this world who trusted him. That look in her eyes humbled him. And planted the first seed of doubt as to his plans.
She might trust him, but she did not care for him as he did her. Not so soon after believing herself heartbroken.
While Wolf did not trust Kemberley, he understood the purpose of their earlier meeting.
Men like Kemberley and his father were a new breed of gentleman.
Not one based in honor but in a knowledge that power lay both in centuries of aristocratic control and a keen understanding of the ways the world was changing.
Both meant being decisive and taking what one wanted.
That was the kind of man his father raised him to be.
“Wolf?” Lost in his thoughts too long, it took Wolf a moment to realize what she had called him.
There was something undeniably intimate about her calling him Wolf rather than Lord Wolfridge, although it made him long for something else.
He longed for her to call him something secret, not the name that everyone else called him.
“Julian.”
“Pardon?” The lady raised a quizzical brow.
“My Christian name is Julian,” he bit out. “You should use it.”
In all his years observing her, Wolf had never witnessed Lady Petra gape, but her mouth briefly fell open in a moue of surprise and she seemed to strive to maintain her composure.
“Thank you, Julian. Though I prefer Jules,” Petra said simply, a warm smile slowly lighting up her features.
Beyond the erotic thrill his name on her tongue produced in him, that smile did far more damage.
The tightness in his chest, first ignited at the Bromley Ball, whirled and spun with renewed vigor, a compressed sphere of radiant heat and unbidden fire.
The curve of her lip and the small dimple that popped out were too much for him.
He surged forward, wrapping his hands around her waist.
“I have to kiss you, Petra. You have from ten to tell me to stop. To tell me you do not want this. Ten.”
“My lord?” A flush rose from her delectable decolletage, blooming up her neck.
“Nine. Julian, you mean. Or Jules.”
“Is this to do with our pretend courtship?”
“Eight. Hang the pretense. There will be nothing ‘pretend’ in this kiss.”
If possible, Petra’s eyes grew even wider in the dim firelight as she backed up against the wall adjacent to the fireplace.
“You wish to make it real,” she said in a very controlled voice.
“Seven. I want you. That is what I wish. Six.”
“I admit I do not know what I want. But I should like to find out,” she said quietly.
“Five. Does my kissing you achieve this goal?” He had no desire to crowd her, yet it was as though his physical frame was magnetically tethered to her proximity. He braced an arm against the wainscoted wall above her, leaning toward her with slow deliberation.
“It could be particularly illuminating,” she breathed, her face assuming a distinctly dazed expression.
“Four. There is one thing.” Wolf paused his countdown as something hot and possessive shot through his blood. “If I kiss you, you will be thinking of me. John is the best of friends, but I cannot have you thinking of him with my lips upon you.”
Petra drew in a shaky breath before she responded. “You are wholly unique. I do not believe I would even consider thinking of anyone or anything else if I found myself in a c-carnal embrace with you, my lord. Three.”
Drawing back to search her features, Wolf scanned her face with a singular intensity.
It was patently clear that her continuation of the count served as a definitive assent, a silent surrender to the mounting tension between them.
The unmistakable spark of curiosity and unmasked desire dancing within those mahogany depths provided the final, exhilarating confirmation he required.
And then she kissed him.
Before his mind could catch up with the explosions reverberating through his chest, Petra broke away briefly and uttered a soft, breathless plea. “Forgive me, Jules, I was never very patient waiting for something I want.”
Her words shredded any reserve that Wolf had about kissing her and his plan.
He guessed this may have been her first kiss, though she kissed with an intensity and certainty that nearly stole his breath.
He had meant to ease her into the kiss but he found himself in the middle of a passionate embrace, not knowing where she began and he stopped.
Kissing her more deeply, he cradled her face, pouring years of what he now recognized as pent-up longing into her lips.
She parted her mouth and he took the opportunity to stroke his tongue into hers, and after a small pause, she met his with her own, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Drawing back from the intensity of the moment, he inclined his head to rest his brow against her own.
“May I show you pleasure, Petra? With my hands?”
Petra pulled away for a moment, and something dark passed across her face at the word hands.
“What will you do?” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice setting off something primal and possessive in his chest.
Leaning forward so that he could speak against the delicate shell of her ear, he realized he needed to both reassure her and seduce her, and he let his words paint a picture.
“First, I will trace my finger up those delectable legs, while every nerve will be afire with awareness of my touch,” he rasped, hyper-aware of her deep inhalation of breath.
“Then, I will pull up those skirts and find the slit in your drawers, which I will part so that my hands can feel the essence of you, which I will stroke until you cry out in absolute pleasure, chasing your own release in the most beautiful petite mort imaginable.” Pulling away from her ear, Wolf looked between her eyes.
“Would you like that?” he asked more earnestly than he meant to.
The darkness that had passed across her face before was gone, replaced by a wild curiosity he had only seen a few times before, matched with a self-conscious lust he found both arousing and charming.
Shyly, she nodded and Wolf proceeded to be a man of his word, utilizing his fingers to bring her the ultimate pleasure.
For the first time in his life, someone else’s pleasure and release mattered much more than his own and he relished the feel of her ecstasy against him, satisfied in a primal way that had been previously unknown to him.
Watching her chest rising and falling, as if trying to restore her breath while she righted her skirts, Wolf regretted his earlier conversation with Kemberley.
He would not rush or trap Petra through this kind of intimacy.
It was far too sacred, meant only for the two of them, alone in this warm, fiery glow of the library.
He would find another way to make her his.
Of course, just as he had this thought, Lord Kemberley and several others burst into the library.