Chapter Twelve #2
He gave a short, almost self-conscious smile. It was a rare, boyish expression that startled even him. “When I was a boy, my cousins and I would come here to play. We built a fortress of branches against that wall, fought imaginary battles, swore eternal oaths of loyalty.”
Her eyes softened as she took in the sight. “How old were you?”
“Seven, perhaps eight.” He paused, glancing around. “They left for the continent after my parents died, and I remained. I think I stopped coming here not long after.”
She looked about the clearing with quiet reverence, as if seeing it through the eyes of a child: a secret world preserved in sunlight and memory.
“And you’ve not returned until now?”
“No.” He shrugged. “There seemed little point.”
That was when the first drop struck Cassian’s sleeve. Another followed, then another. Within moments, the soft grey sky broke open, and rain came in a sudden, gleeful rush, not the usual polite drizzle of the English countryside.
Charlotte gasped as her hand flew to her bonnet. “Oh!”
Cassian could not help the low laugh that escaped him. “Come, quickly!”
They ran across the lawns, and laughter chased after them as quickly as the rain. Charlotte lifted her skirts, heedless of decorum and of the fact that her hair was coming loose in damp, golden curls. Cassian reached for her hand without thinking, and she took it.
By the time they reached the great doors of Duskbourne, both were soaked through. Charlotte’s shawl clung to her shoulders, and his coat dripped steadily onto the marble floor. She was utterly breathless, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes bright with a light he hadn’t seen before.
“I cannot remember the last time I was caught in the rain,” she said between breaths, still smiling.
Cassian looked at her, feeling tension in his chest, as if a place was being created for her where he thought no one would dwell ever again.
“Nor I,” he admitted, surprised to find himself grinning. “I cannot remember the last time I laughed at all.”
Their smiles lingered, softening into silence. The sound of the rain filled the hall, drumming on the windows and pooling on the stone. They started toward the stairs together, still damp and still half-laughing.
Then, halfway up, Charlotte slipped. Her hand missed the banister, and her foot slid against the wet hem of her gown. In an instant, Cassian caught her, weaving his arm firmly around her waist and pulling her toward himself.
She gasped softly as her palms splayed against his chest. They froze, and between them, their breaths mingled.
Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came.
Cassian could see the raindrops clinging to her lashes, then the quick rise and fall of her throat.
His heart pounded in answer. He knew he should step back.
He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. And yet…
Her fingers curled lightly in his soaked shirt. That small, unconscious movement undid him.
He bent his head, and their mouths met with no hesitation and no restraint. The kiss was deep, fierce, unthinking. It tasted of rain and warmth and every unspoken word between them.
Charlotte’s breath caught against his lips.
He could feel her hands trembling, sliding upward to his shoulders.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the press of her body against his, the heat that flared even through wet fabric.
He had completely given in to the desperate, beautiful wrongness of wanting what he had sworn never to want again.
She kissed him back as if it were the last kiss she would ever receive, and yet, he demanded more.
Both of them were helpless in the face of their own desire, as his hands kept her close.
Softly, she moaned against his mouth, and the sound sent a thunderous roaring through his insides.
Her thigh pressed between his legs, feeling the length of his manhood throbbing with need.
His hand was on her breast, sliding underneath the fabric, feeling the scorching heat of her naked skin.
There were so many layers to her chastity, and he felt he could tear them all off.
His fingers found her pebbled nipple, and he could imagine how rosy-pink it would be.
He imagined taking it into his mouth, playing with it, biting it gently, only to soothe the ache with his tongue again.
As if seeing that very image projected from his own mind, she sucked on his tongue, kissing him even harder. Nothing could dim the treacherous desire he felt for the woman he held in his hands.
Her thigh rubbed against his roaring manhood again, which was fighting to break free from the constraint of his trousers. His hand travelled down to her leg, grabbing a fistful of her gown, lifting it up. He yearned to touch the heat of her skin, even if it meant turning himself into flame.
His trembling fingers grazed her thigh, and she gasped softly. For one suspended moment, Cassian could hear nothing but the rush of his own heartbeat. Then, with a shuddering breath, he tore himself back.
And then, very suddenly, he released her as if burned, stepping away so abruptly she swayed where she stood. His hands curled into fists at his sides, which was a futile attempt to steady the chaos roaring through him. He had never seen her look more alive… and that was precisely the danger.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “You should change,” he instructed, swallowing heavily. “You’ll catch your death standing here.”
Charlotte blinked, and confusion flickered in her eyes before it hardened into composure. “Of course,” she murmured. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He meant to say something more, something that would soften the chill between them, but the words refused to come.
It was better this way. Better distance than temptation.
As she turned, he caught the faintest trace of disappointment in her expression. Then she gathered her soaked skirts and ascended the stairs without another word.
She was his wife, yet he had no right to her, not while the ghosts of his past still stood between them. He would destroy her if he gave in, the way he destroyed everything he loved.