He towered over her. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, to look into the blinding sun of his beauty. Most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and he looked at her like she was the goddess.
His lips descended upon hers, and he tasted of rain. Cool and fresh and welcome. He pulled her bottom lip between his teeth, and she shivered, arched her hips against him. So needy so fast? Yes. She’d been wanting for two days, after all. Longer really, though the last two days had provided solid sensations—touch and taste—to attach to the need, make it harder to ignore.
He slipped a knee between her legs and nudged them apart, pushing his strong, muscled thigh up against her aching core. She arched harder, deeper, needing the feel of him there. He kissed her pulse at her neck, then returned to her lips. But not for long. He left one deep, lingering kiss there, then scattered a path of kisses along her cheek until he reached her ear.
He nipped her earlobe and then spoke low and soft and strong. “Your kisses are the opposite of distasteful to me. They’re all I can think about. I’ll never be the same again after this.”
“Nonsense,” she said. Though she knew what he meant. A part of her would always ache and reach for this, for what it felt like to come alive under his hands, what it felt like to want more from him, to feel safe, to feel adored. Because even though he seemed not to want her with his words, he seemed to want her very much with his actions. Hadn’t the entire last year between them been this way? Since the moment he brought her sustenance in a lonely party, sustenance of the body and of the soul. In his every gesture and look, he’d been telling her his desire. Another reason she’d run after him when she’d decided to take a lover. She’d not thought he’d deny her.
The eager play of his lips over hers stilled, and she groaned at the loss, tried to reengage him.
“No,” he said. “I need to tell you no.” His hands rose from the curve of her lower back, gliding up over her ribs, brushing against the sides of her breasts. He halted there, letting his thumb caress her where she’d not been caressed in over six years.
He shivered, his body leaning closer, pulsing nearer to her. “I should tell you no,” he repeated, “but I do not have the willpower.”
She kissed his jaw. Victory felt sweet, the rain in her skirts no longer a heavy weight but making her buoyant as a cloud. “Then say yes.”
“I’m not stupid enough to do that.” He returned to her lips for one more long, languorous, and somehow sorrowful kiss, and then he stepped away from her. A cold rush of windy rain gusted between them. His gaze skittered away from her, a fallen leaf.
And anger welled in her. So did the lessons she’d learned in the last year, the courage to speak up for herself. “You’ll let every other woman in London into your bed but me?”
He flinched and anger flashed in his eyes. “Listen, darling. You’re not the type of woman a man beds and forgets. But I’m the type of man who does only that.”
“That is precisely what I desire. Though perhaps the bedding could happen more than once.”
He groaned.
“I am not in the market for love,” she assured him. “I do not seek marriage. Neither do you, so we are perfectly suited for one another in this endeavor.”
“No. We are not.”
She wrapped her arms around her body automatically to try to replace the warmth he had taken from her. Where was her sweet victory now? Stupid to say yes to her? The cruelty of it felt like pins in her skin.
He retreated even further. “Someone could see us here.”
“I’m trying to be wicked.” The need to have him back had produced those words. She fisted her hands so she did not show her shock at having said them.
“No.” His jaw ticked.
She took a single step nearer. “I would like you to consider my offer. Respect that I know my own mind and my own wishes.”
It seemed the world froze as his brown eyes flashed. In consideration?
His muscles bunched. He stepped forward.
A horse neighed nearby.
He rocked backward and threw a glance over his shoulder. “I should go. We’ll be caught.” He stumbled toward the doors. “Good afternoon, Lady Woodfeld.” Then he disappeared.
She rushed after him, poking her head into the rain to watch him run down the alley. “Webster!”
He likely didn’t even hear.
No matter. She’d not give up. Oh, she may have to give up on her lover plan. She could not very well force him into a liaison. But now she had to know—why did he kiss her like she was the only—the best—woman on earth, then run from her in the next breath?
Five
Grant slipped out of the saddle and patted Wellington’s neck. He’d barely been able to stay atop the horse that last ride around the ring, despite the centripetal force keeping him mostly balanced. His ankle hurt like hell. And exhaustion sang in his bones, weighing down every muscle till it felt like chains kept him grounded when he should have been able to soar with ease. It wasn’t all an aging body, either. What man could sleep with Freddy slinking through his dreams?