Chapter Three
Annabelle narrowed her eyes on the speechless man, quite speechless herself.
He had only fastened the blanket about his waist, leaving his upper half entirely, shockingly bare.
Her eyes fixed on the muscled wall of his chest, and for several heartbeats, she simply stared.
People spoke of Greek gods and heroic marble statues, and she had always assumed such comparisons wildly exaggerated.
Apparently not. The man looked as though he had stepped straight off Zeus’s throne.
He wasn’t naked beneath there, was he? Her gaze flicked to the table where he’d discarded his clothes. Of course he was! She gathered her blanket more tightly around her. At least she had kept her chemise on!
His gaze remained blankly on her. “I make you feel like a child?”
She blinked, lifting her gaze to meet his, her lips parted and shut again.
Of course, she’d regretted that admission the moment it slipped from her lips.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t take the words back, or she would have.
The fact that he made her feel anything wasn’t his fault.
She was feeling the feelings. Not him. After all, her emotions belonged solely to her.
“Yes, well . . .”
“That has never been my intention, Annabelle,” he said softly. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you as anything but a capable woman.”
Lord.
Mockery she could have handled. Sincerity was another matter entirely. And yet his tone made the words somehow sound remarkably perilous.
“Forget I said anything,” she muttered. “You’re not responsible for how I feel.”
He cocked his head. “I might not be responsible, but that doesn’t mean I care. Is it because I raised my brow at you?”
In point of fact . . . “A raised brow is a form of lazy, infuriating dismissal. Silent judgment.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Noted. Then I shall try my very best to refrain from brow-raising henceforth. Though,” the corner of his lips hooked up, “I must ask for forgiveness in advance if I slip.”
Heh. She had no doubt he’d slip. She lifted her chin, ignoring all the dangerous temptation below his neck. “Don’t change your habits on my account. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.” In fact, she could probably weather all the brow lifting with his chest on display.
Seriously, Annabelle.
“If it were of no importance, you would not have brought it up.”
She shrugged, her senses going on high alert when he approached her, almost looming, over her. Annabelle retreated a step. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know myself.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth again before returning to her eyes.
Just like before.
Ah. So she hadn’t imagined that? She’d almost brushed it aside as foolish thinking.
“What are you doing?” he returned the question to her, his gaze probing into her very soul.
Annabelle blinked up at him. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You exist.”
Annabelle’s jaw slackened, heat flushing in all directions, from her cheeks to her ears, at the same time racing down her neck, spreading from her collar bone to her shoulders. How did a woman respond to that?
You exist.
She suddenly wanted to kiss him. Yes, even if she’d be a fool to put any meaningful stock in those words, and did not dare ask what he meant.
She wanted to feel, at least once, what it would be like to give in .
. . to be kissed by him. She wanted him to be hers.
A ridiculous want, but a want, nonetheless.
“You exist, too.”
He smiled. “I do.”
Stars, Annabelle. Are you a ninny? Why are you just repeating what he said?
“But you . . .” His voice turned rougher. “You seem to exist in a manner that unsettles a man’s waking thoughts.”
Her pulse leaped. “A man, or you?”
“I am a man, aren’t I?”
Urgh. “You know what I mean.”
“Be that as it may.” He took another step toward her, until the blanket at his waist nearly brushed the one enveloping her. “Your presence provokes me to such an extent that I cannot seem to remember a single sensible reason to keep my distance right now.”
Annabelle swallowed. God help her, she understood the sentiment. “Perhaps you have no sense.” Just like her.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “Perhaps you are the reason I have no sense at a time like this.”
A time like this . . . Yes, well, who wouldn’t lose a bit of reason in these circumstances? She forgot to breathe when his head dipped toward hers.
What to do?
Should she retreat? Push him away? Slap his approaching face? To want this man was to become the very sort of woman she’d sworn she’d never be: foolish. But wanting and having a taste of this man should be different, shouldn’t it? A taste wouldn’t cause any harm. Just a small one.
Only . . . not to be outdone, she rose onto her toes, still clutching the blanket tightly to her chest, and tilted her face up to meet his advance.
Her heart pounded wildly. Not just her body, but even the air between them seemed to charge with breathless hunger.
This was madness. Utter, delicious madness.
The door burst open with a violent crack.
Annabelle nearly leaped from her skin in fright. Wind tore into the cottage, dragging with it a sheet of rain. Cold droplets lashed against her face, and she blinked, pulling back.
A growl filled the small cottage.
“Oh no you don’t, sweetheart.”
She scarcely had time to draw breath before hot lips came down on hers.
*
Knox couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. The sight of her, hair tumbling in chestnut waves, her luscious frame wrapped in a blanket like some temptation sent solely to torment him, burned through his reasoning.
What little he possessed anyway.
Her lips were warm beneath his, softer than he had any right to know. All he could think about was the way she had looked at him—intoxicated and flushed—and the dangerous urge to keep her that way.
His hand rose, cupping the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the damp silk of her hair as he invaded her mouth without resistance.
The wind howled through the open door behind them, rain splaying over his back.
She made a small sound against his mouth, and the next moment her arms circled his neck, the blanket that had been covering her dropping at his feet.
The soft curve of her body against his struck him like a blow.
A near addicting combination.
God help him, he should stop. Stop and walk away. He should most certainly not get close. If she glimpsed what he really was, the careful illusion he wore would fall away, and there would be no putting that illusion back.
But was any of this of consequence?
A damning line had already been crossed. Should he just reveal himself and be done with it? Serve a reminder? Be an arse? This was perhaps the only mercy he could offer her.
Knox forced himself to pull back. “Christ, this is all wrong.”
She blinked up at him, confused. “What every woman wants to hear.”
He bit down on his jaw before grinding out, “Do not mistake me for a gentleman, Annabelle. You will not like what you find. Believe me on that score. If I don’t stop now—”
“I don’t mistake you for anything,” she interrupted him. “I never have.”
Knox paused. “That’s . . .” Good? And deuced . . . disappointing? He didn’t know what he expected to hear, but this simple response from her was not exactly it.
Christ.
Almost as though he were not worth mistaking for anything at all.
“Good, right?” she finished for him. Her fingers slid into his hair as she drew him back to her. “Or is it bad? Either way, I am determined to kiss you anyway.”
Ah, bloody hell. Her knack for provoking him might well be rivaled by her knack for melting him. He was going straight to perdition for this, but he wanted to kiss her anyway, too. Desperately.
All defenses snapped.
Their lips crushed against each other again.
The edges of the first kiss had vanished, replaced by a fierce thirst for each other.
The damp folds of her chemise brushed against him, acting less like a barrier and more like a layer of skin.
He slid his hands down the arch of her back and cupped the curve of her bottom, lifting her easily as he carried her to the bed. He sank down, settling her astride him.
“The door,” she breathed, her lips still fused with his.
Damnation. He’d forgotten about that. “Are you cold?” Beneath his palms, her skin burned fever-hot, rendering the lashing wind and rain nothing but a breeze. He traced the line of her spine, his pulse thrumming in his fingertips at the touch.
“No,” she murmured. “I’m not.”
Thank Christ.
Their lips sealed together once again. He couldn’t get enough.
How would he ever be able to get enough?
It simply didn’t seem possible. Gathering her closer, and in a powerful twist, he swept them around so that she was beneath him and his body braced between her thighs.
At once, Annabelle’s legs locked around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back as the kiss deepened.
She dragged her fingers along his back.
Sweet, damn torture.
Knox pushed into the softness of her body, the hard line of his desire blunt against the blanket obstructing his path.
He wanted more. He wanted his blanket gone.
Wanted to rip it away and discard the last of his morality along with it, until there was nothing left between them but untamed desire and the raging storm.
He reached down, gripping the blanket to rip it aside, when a sound cut through the torrent.
Knox wrenched his mouth from hers, his attention snapping to the door.
“What’s wrong?” Annabelle asked, gripping his arm.
“I’m not sure. I thought I heard—” Knox froze.
The thunder of hooves.
Shite.
Muffled by the downpour, but unmistakable: horses, and more than one, tearing up the path toward the house.
Annabelle stiffened beneath him.
“Knox,” she whispered.
Christ above. The gust from the open doorway struck like a cold slap, reminding him of the risk they were courting.
He wrenched himself away, the absence of her stabbing like a violent, wrenching loss.
He turned back to her. And froze once again.
The vision of her met his gaze, her cheeks flushed, her chestnut hair fanned across the mattress, lips swollen from his own.
He had never beheld a more beautiful sight, nor one that frightened him more.
What on God’s earth have I done?