Chapter 11
eleven
AMANDA
I had spent half the day pretending I wasn’t avoiding Henry, which I failed at constantly.
Whenever he was in the same room as me, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.
He was attractive enough when he was bounding about all smiles, but the brooding energy that rolled off of him was tantalising.
It hit a part of me that I’d left wanting far too long.
And yet one single night of, well, barely even phone sex, had me sneaking looks at him like a lust-drunk idiot.
By mid-afternoon, Henry went AWOL. And although I resisted the urge to hunt him down for a solid forty-five minutes to catch a glimpse, I found myself heading into the warm humidity of the orangery.
Not the fancy one many older mansions had, but one that breathed on its own, with tropical plants wedged in every corner.
And one Henry James.
The thick air made my chest ache as I stepped inside. Condensation dripped, marking a soft beat as I made my way through the jungle of plants.
Henry stood near the centre, tall rose bushes framing him, shirt sleeves rolled up, and a sheen of sweat glistening on his throat.
The late winter sun threw golden highlights over him, like a Renaissance-painted angel.
But under those sweet blond curls, he wasn’t cherubic at all.
I’d seen beyond his curtain of cheer, and something altogether more delicious lurked there.
Something potentially worth risking my reputation for.
Maybe.
I lingered in the doorway, both unsure about approaching him and riveted at watching him work. Stepping forward, the door clicked behind me. His gaze snapped to me, and I stilled.
‘Amanda.’
Had his voice always been so damned throaty? When he said my name like that, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at him. But I held back. He quirked a brow when I froze, before placing his snips on the rough wooden worktop.
‘Come here.’
The demand forced my feet forward, every step closer, sending my pulse rocketing in my throat until it sounded almost as loud in my ears as the dripping condensation.
‘I wanted to apologise about this morning. I didn’t mean to blow you off. Well, I did. But I might be regretting it.’
He folded his arms, the muscles bunching.
‘It’s alright.’
‘I admitted something that I wanted to take back, but that’s obviously impossible.’
His eyes darkened.
‘When you offered to lick up my mess, or when you called me Sir?’ There was no malice in the question, but it still made me squirm.
Heat ricocheted through me as I stopped in front of him, his eyes sweeping over me and leaving me feeling utterly exposed.
‘I didn’t say I’d lick it up.’
‘No.’ He stepped toward me, rounding until I was between him and the worktop.
‘But that’s what you meant. And now you’re ashamed for letting me know about that fantasy of yours.
What you're missing is how I knew exactly what you meant without you saying it. I think we are cut from the same cloth, Amanda.’
I should have left.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
Instead, I leaned back on the table, letting my dress hitch up just enough to show a flash of thigh.
When he moved forward, pressing momentarily against me, I readied myself for another soul-snatching kiss.
Fuck, he could kiss for Britain. I’d had his damn mouth on my mind all day, and I was so ready for another taste, no matter how reckless.
Instead, he reached past me, lifting a rose he’d cut earlier.
It was deep crimson, long-stemmed and studded with thorns.
A sweet gesture, but not what I’d come for.
‘Sit on the worktop,’ he commanded. ‘And open your legs.’
What the heck? I hoped to god he didn’t think he’d be using me as a damned vase. I was kinky, but not thorns in the chuff kinky.
Before I could formulate my argument, Henry leaned in and brushed his lips against my throat.
‘Trust me.’
Two little words that challenged me. Could I trust him? This near stranger who enchanted donkeys and Australians with nought but a sunny smile. Who mistletoe trapped me?
My body obeyed before my brain did. He guided me backwards and lifted me until I sat on the table top, the rough wood digging into my backside through my dress.
‘You’re trembling.’ He ran a thumb over my lip.
‘I can’t help it.’ I hated how bloody breathy he made me.
‘Good.’
Henry tipped the rose and grazed the petals over my exposed thigh.
Cool silk against my sticky skin. I watched as the red contrasted with my thigh, dancing over my flesh and sending ripples of sensation through me.
‘This is where it begins, you focus on what I let you feel, and you let everything else fall away. There’s just you, me, and this rose.
He dragged the petal slowly upwards as my eyes fluttered closed. I couldn’t help but sigh as the petals neared the apex of my thighs, barely covered by the hem of my dress.
Then a thorn grazed the same path. Replacing the soft sensation with a much more acute one. Not breaking skin, but sharp enough to make me flinch.
‘And this heightens the sensations. It takes all that pleasure and tightens it, rolling it into something far deeper.’
I quaked as need washed over me. It was mortifying how he made me ache with nothing but a flower.
He tilted my chin sharply with his free hand.. ‘Do you know why I love roses so much?’
‘Everyone likes roses.’
‘No,’ Henry said. ‘Everyone is told they love roses. Because they are pretty. But that’s not what I love about roses. I love that they have contrast. So sharp that they can draw blood, yet so soft they can make even the prettiest, most tightly controlled woman whimper.’
Henry flipped the rose again, making me moan as he tauted me with the velvety flower, dancing it over the crotch of my panties.
‘Too soft,’ I begged.
‘So demanding.’ Henry didn’t give more; he kept me there, on the table, arching toward him in desperation.
‘You are just like the roses, Amanda. All spikey if you don’t approach with care, but beneath it all, you’re just as delicate as the petals. When you let me past the sharpness, the rewards will be oh so sweet.’
‘Maybe I’m all thorns,’ I muttered, tipping my head back as the thorns grazed over my panties.
‘Not with me.’ He lifted the rose higher, dragging it over my cheek.
The bloom slid down my throat, over my collarbone, down to my chest, snagging in the fabric of my dress.
‘Henry…’
‘Look at me.’
I did. The heat burning in his eyes had me pressing my thighs together and a flush rushing to my face.
‘If I were to take this further,’ he said, thumb brushing a scratch the thorn left over my thigh, ‘I’d have you focus on my voice. My touch. Nothing else. No guilt. No professionalism. No overthinking.’
Then he kissed me.
Soft. Far too soft. I needed him to lose control, to follow me down into the pit of lust that he’d launched me into.
I gripped his shirt to steady myself. To demand more.
He broke the kiss, his voice rough. ‘Not here. Not now. I want nothing more than to discover every single way I can make you plead. But I’m also here to protect you. And fucking you in a room full of windows mid-day wouldn’t be in your best interest. No matter how fucking hard you have me.’
I was on the verge of begging. I knew I was. There was no stopping it.
‘Amanda. Are you in here?’
Rita.
I jerked like I’d been clocked in the arse with a taser.
Henry winced, then stepped back just far enough for cool air to rush between us.
Fucking terrible timing, Rita.
‘Go,’ he murmured. ‘Before she comes in and finds you wet and me rocking a tent.’
There was no way my face wasn’t puce.
It took me a moment to steady myself when he lifted me to the floor, my ability to walk having fled with my senses.