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“Stop,” I say. “I don’t know what this thing between us is--if it’s even a thing. But it can’t happen. I’m promised to Titus. I may not like it, and you may not like it, but that’s reality. I should have never did what I did with you that first night, and I’ll have to live with that, but at least I can know I resisted this time and all the times after.”
I expect him to wear a stung expression or to at least look angry. Instead, he steps forward, bringing that sinfully perfect body within arm’s reach. He flashes a half-grin. “So you do want me, then,” he says.
“I didn’t say that,” I say, taking a step back, but my retreat is halted when I bump into the wall.
He advances again, closer now. “You said you resisted. It wouldn’t be resistance if you didn’t want it.”
“That’s beside the point,” I say, licking my lips.
“No, Princess. That’s the only point there is. Me. You. Two bodies and a lot of potential. That shit between you and my brother? That is beside the point. You say you’re promised to him. Fuck that. Did you ever promise to marry him? Your parents--your biological parents--made the arrangement before they died. Your foster parents knew when they accepted you into their home that this would be your future and treated you like shit because of it. The way I see it, you didn’t promise him anything. You don’t owe him a thing.”
“It doesn’t feel right,” I say, shaking my head but finding nowhere to look that doesn’t push the fire inside me toward the breaking point. He does have a point, I think, but I don’t know if that’s the heat between my legs talking or my good sense.
“Be with me now. Here. We can deal with this arrangement together. Your body is telling you what you want. Stop fighting it. You want this as much as I do.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. His words wash over me like sweet poison, carrying so much promise and yet so much deadly potential. Giving in to Roark now is what I want. I can’t trust myself to make the right decision, not while my nose is filled with the pure masculine scent of his skin and the heat of his breath, but my body is sending a very clear message. Kiss him. Let him take you. Be his.
“I don’t do things like this,” I say. “I stick to my promises. I’m a good person.” The words come out of me in a hurry, tumbling over each other in one confused jumble.
“You didn’t do things like this because you let the people with power over you take advantage until now. They made promises for you and because you wanted to be a good girl, you obeyed. It’s not about good or bad. It’s about strength. Be a strong person. Follow your passion.”
I suck in a deep breath through my nose to try to calm myself, but that’s a mistake. The air that comes in is full of his scent, and there’s manly power to it that ignites desire like I’ve never felt before.
His hand is on my neck, thumb drawing a tingling line across my jaw. “You will be able to look at yourself in the mirror and say, ‘there… there is a woman who knew what she wanted and took it. She didn’t wait around until it was too late. She acted. There is a woman with strength.’”
The last of my reservations melt away, blasted by the unbearable heat of his closeness and the fire in his voice. I let my head come closer to his, lips parted just slightly. I was a fool to think I could resist him. A complete, utter fool.
I reach for him, reveling in the warmth and smoothness of his body, running my fingers down the lines of muscle that draw my touch down to his waistline.
He crashes his lips to mine and I groan as his tongue slicks against mine. I can taste the sweet wine he must have had for dinner on his lips and tongue. He pins me to the wall with his body, pressing into me until all I can do is hold on and return his kiss while I ride a wave of adrenaline and pleasure.
He pushes away after a time--seconds, minutes, half an hour, I can’t say. “Take your dress off for me now. Slowly.”
His voice cracks through the silence as harshly as a whip, and it might as well be for how it compels me to move, making my hands grip the silky hem of my dress and pull it up.
“Slower,” he commands.
I obey, lifting the dress inch by inch. The air is cold against my bare skin, and I’m self-conscious of the wet patch on my panties that I have no way to hide. I fling the dress aside, standing before him in nothing but my panties and bra--which I opted to wear when I thought I might actually be escaping, even though it seems like no one here wears them.
