“You wrote a song about a cow? A love song?”
“It’s a neat little trick I have. Find something pretty or interesting and describe it in vague enough terms everyone thinks it’s a lass, throw in a few words about love and—instant success. Don’t tell anyone or all the fellows will be writing songswell enough to outsell mine.” That quirk of his lip upward almost killed her.
She turned, he dropped his arms, and she already missed his touch, but said, “Playing? Did it help distract you?”
“A bit. Not entirely.”
“Play another then. This one about a, oh, I don’t know, a barn cat. Surely you have one of those, fashioned to appear to be about a tempting London lady who is both flirtatious and cold.”
“Can’t say I do, actually. I don’t like cats. Had one once. It liked my sister more than me.”
“Poor cats. Play whatever pleases you, then.”
Silence strung too long and heavy behind her. She peeked over her shoulder, found him stooped and still once more, gaze riveted on the moon.
“I don’t think,” he finally said, lips barely moving, “playing will help tonight.”
Sorrow sliced through her. How could she send him back to that mean, cold pallet after that? How could she have ever allowed it to begin with? She hated herself for it. “Another distraction, then?”
His gaze flashed to her, and those shoulders rolled back. So little linen separating her from so much skin—tanned and taut and smooth. Except where it was knotted by scars.
“Clara, go to sleep. You will not welcome the sort of distraction I crave.”
The tenor of husky need in his voice told her all. And the river of desire coursing through her matched that need.
Bravery came easily tonight.
Her fingers found his fall, flicked a button open as she marched him backward, circled him around the pianoforte toward the bench.
His hands covered hers. “Clara, what are you doing?”
“That’s evident, is it not?” She grinned up at him then licked her lips. His lips, even set in an uncertain line, looked much too tempting not to.
“Quite evident, but?—”
“Will you deny me?” Her hands stilled as she waited.
And after precisely three sharp breaths, he answered. “Never.”
She pressed him back onto the bench and dropped to her knees before him.
Only to be picked up immediately, the ground giving way beneath her knees, her feet, as Atlas swung her up into his arms, carried her as she flailed to find security by wrapping her arms around his neck, and deposited her on top of the back end of the pianoforte.
“Atlas, what?—”
His lips crashed into hers, demanding, taking, giving. Giving, giving, with each stroke of his tongue into her mouth, with each nip of his teeth at her bottom lip, with his hands caressing her breasts and tearing her wrapper down her shoulder. Giving as he nudged her knees apart and stepped between them.
Always giving, her Atlas.
“No,” she panted, pushing at his chest. Impossible to move. He merely lifted his head, blinking. She cupped his cheek. “I want to give toyoutonight. Everyone is always taking from you, and you give happily, but someone should give to you as well. Let me, Atlas. Let me.”
His arms wrapped around her, his hands became fists at her lower back, settled just above the curve of her arse. Perfect spot for them, as if her curves had been made for his hands. “Do you know what I want just now, above all things?”
She held her breath. She had no idea, but she wanted to know, needed to.
“The taste of you on my tongue,” he growled. And then he hit his knees between her legs, his gaze still riveted on her face, his eyes gems set on seduction. Well, he could check that off his list. He’d quite thoroughly seduced her already. With a touch and growl and the thud of his knees hitting the floor. Her body buzzed, leapt to life wherever he touched her.
“No, no. Let me taste you. Let me giveyoupleasure.”
