“And you’ll hate me for it.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “You deserve better.”
So much better than me.
“Michael,” she said softly, “there’s no one better. Not for me.”
The words crashed through him, and she tilted her head, came up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his lips.
It was the most perfect kiss he’d ever experienced, her lips firmly on his, soft and sweet and utterly mesmerizing. He’d ached for her for days and she laid claim to him with the caress, taking his lower lip between hers and stroking once, twice, until he opened for her, and she stole his breath with the tentative exploration of her tongue—a silken slide against his. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tightly against him, loving the way she felt, soft where he was hard, silk where he was steel.
When she finally pulled back from the kiss, her lips were swollen and pink, and he could not keep his gaze from them, parted sweetly before they curved around her words. “I do not wish to learn about billiards tonight, Michael.”
His gaze flickered up from those lips, meeting her gaze. “No?”
She shook her head slowly, the movement a sinful promise. “I should much rather learn about you.”
She kissed him again, and he could not resist her. There wasn’t a man alive who could. His hands were on her, pulling her tightly against him.
He was lost.
His wife stood before him like temptation incarnate, asking him to make love to her—risking her reputation and everything for which he’d been working.
And he found he didn’t care.
He reached past her, throwing a hidden switch and swinging the wall away to reveal a staircase beyond, steps stretching up into a great, yawning darkness. He extended his hand to her, palm up, allowing her to make the choice to ascend with him. He did not want her to ever think that he had forced her into this moment. Into this experience. Indeed, it felt just the opposite, as though this courageous, female explorer were calling to him.
And when she settled her hand in his without hesitation, without remorse, desire shot through him, quick and nearly unbearable.
He pulled her to him, kissing her thoroughly before leading her into the dark stairwell, closing the door behind them, plunging them into blackness.
“Michael?”
She whispered his name, and the sound, soft and decadent, was a siren’s call. He turned toward her, his hand squeezing hers, pulling her to stand on the first step with him, feeling his way to her waist, loving the way her body felt beneath his hands, the roundness of her hips, the soft swell of her stomach.
Her breath hitched as he lifted her to stand on the step above him. Her lips were even with hers now, and he stole a kiss, stroking deep, loving the taste of her, a drug of which he could never have enough.
He pulled away, just barely, and she sighed, the sound of her pleasure making him want her more than he’d ever imagined. He took her mouth again, and her hands came to his hair, her fingers tangling in his curls, tugging at them, making him wish they were naked, and she was guiding his mouth to where she wanted it most.
He growled at the fantasy and pulled away, grasping her hand in his and saying, “Not here. Not in the darkness. I want to see you.”
She kissed him, pressing her br**sts to his chest, robbing his breath, making him desperate for her, for her skin, her touch, the little cries that made him harder than stone. When she released him from the intoxicating caress, he found he’d lost his patience.
He wanted her that moment.
Immediately.
Without hesitation.
So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Up to decadence. Up to pleasure.
Chapter Nineteen
Dear M—
Today, I am twenty-six.
Twenty-six and unmarried—growing older and more wizened by the hour, despite what my mother likes to say in her high-pitched moments.
Eight years of seasons, and not one decent match . . . a shabby record for the eldest daughter of the House of Needham and Dolby. This morning, over breakfast, I saw the disappointment in all their gazes.
But, knowing what my options have been, I found I couldn’t bring myself to agree with their censure.
I am a bad daughter, indeed.
Unsigned
Needham Manor, August 1828
Letter unsent
The stairs led to the owners’ suite.
Michael set her on her feet just inside the secret doorway that opened at the top of the passage, closing it securely behind them before moving with quick grace to the main door to the room. She followed him closely, eager for what was to come next, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Of him.
She had thought he would take her to bed—for surely in this massive club, where men came to explore wickedness and pleasure, there was a place where he slept. Where she might sleep with him.
Where they might do other things, as well, before they had to return to reality and remember all the reasons their marriage was in shambles and their lives were all wrong.
When he locked the door and turned back to her, she stilled in the room, lit by the warm light of a trio of fireplaces and the large golden window that looked out onto the floor of The Angel.
Realization coursing through her. He meant for them to . . .
Here.
She backed away instinctively, and he followed, slow and steady, a silken promise gleaming in his eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked, and she caught her breath at the deep gravel in his voice.
She took a step back. “We’ll be discovered.”
He shook his head. “We won’t be disturbed.”
“How do you know?”
He raised a brow. “I know.”
She believed him. Her heart pounded in her ears as he stalked her across the large, dark room, toward the window, his intent clear.
He would have her. And it would be glorious.
And suddenly, she was not backing away from him out of nervousness or concern or embarrassment. She was backing away because it was unbearably exciting to be pursued by him. He was beautiful and sleek, and he moved with a purpose lacking in lesser men. It was that single-mindedness that drew her to him, that made him so tempting. His pursuit of those things he wanted was relentless.
And right now, he wanted her.
Anticipation thrummed through her and she stilled. In the next heartbeat, he was upon her. He reached for her, cupping her cheek, tilting her face up to his, capturing her gaze with such attention. Such focus.
All on her.
She was consumed with excitement at the realization. With breathlessness.
“What are you thinking?” His thumb stroked along the line of her jaw, leaving heat in its wake.
“The way you look at me,” she said, unable to look away from him. “It makes me feel . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of her words, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the base of her throat, where her pulse raced.
He lifted his head once more. “How does it make you feel, love?”
“It makes me feel powerful.”
She hadn’t realized it until the words were spoken, and one side of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile, his fingertips tracing over her skin, brushing across her collarbone, running along the edge of her silk dress, sending pleasure rippling across her skin. “How so?”
She took a deep breath at the pleasure he wreaked, at the way his eyes tracked his fingers along her skin, and said, “You want me.”