And he let her.
Their lips met—soft, testing, unbearably tender. His breath caught. For one suspended second, he kissed her back—and then he tore away.
“This…” he said, voice raw, “this was not what I wanted.”
She looked up at him. “Are you sure?”
“No. That is…” His hands fisted at his sides, nails digging into his palms—anything to keep from reaching for her. “I never asked for this.”
Her head tilted just slightly. “Then do not lean down. I cannot reach you if you do not lean down.”
She kissed him again… because she could.
This time, he tried.
He truly did.
His hands came up—caught her by the shoulders—not roughly, not firmly, only enough to slow her. His lips parted, his breath ragged, but he could not seem to make the words come. Her mouth was already pressing to his again, soft and sure, and the moment he tasted her, all his strength faltered.
She was warm beneath his hands. Warm and willing and alive in a way that made his heart seem to burst. Her kiss deepened—more bold now, more certain—and he groaned as her fingers slid over his chest, over his shoulders, tugging him closer.
He wrenched back with effort. “Elizabeth,” he managed, hoarse. “This is… a bad idea. We should not—”
“Then tell me to stop,” she whispered.
Her eyes met his, wide and sure and gleaming in the low light.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came.
So she reached for him again.
When he kissed her back—truly, fully—it was like drowning. His hands tangled in her hair, and her arms wrapped around his neck. There was nothing gentle in it now. Her lips parted beneath his with a sigh that was half a moan, and he drank it in like salvation. Her body pressed to his, mouth opening for him again and again, and he was lost. Devouring her. Consuming her. Every sound she made shot through him like fire. When he kissed down her neck, she arched, gasping encouragement.
He was already gone.
He could not think. Could not reason. He knew only her fingers twisting in his hair, her mouth trailing heat along his jaw, the intoxicating press of her curves beneath his hands. She clung to him, pliant and eager, and he burned for her.
She whispered his name—his given name—and it wrecked him.
He picked her up—one seamless, breathless movement—and she laughed against his throat, the sound barely audible, more sigh than laughter, but it curled around his spine like a brand. Her arms wound tighter around his neck, and her lips found the line of his jaw again just before she pulled back to look at him.
His eyes met hers. He should have set her down. He should have said her name—gently, warningly, with all the strength of a man still in control.
Instead, he carried her to the cot.
The room seemed smaller, dimmer, pulsing with the sound of his own heartbeat. He knelt over her, his hands braced on either side, trying—truly trying—to draw one last breath of sense before he lost it entirely. But she was already pulling him down with her, fingers in his hair, cradling his head to her chest like she meant to keep him there forever.
And he went. Helpless. Wanting.
Her breath hitched as his lips found her throat, lingering there. Kissing lightly, then deeper, letting his mouth speak the things he could not yet say aloud. Her scent, her skin, the shiver she gave when he moved—he had never known desire like this. It consumed. It commanded.
He could make this right. Even now… even if…
She would be ruined, yes—her reputation shattered beyond repair—but not by force, not by deceit. By choice. By her own will. Her own fire.Shehad come tohim, arms open, eyes clear, asking nothing but the truth of his heart.
And he would give her everything in return—everything that was his to give, at least.
Her father would surely protest, but he would prevail. He would tell all, if necessary, to prove that he was the only man she could possibly have. He would bind himself to her in every way a man could. She would never lack for protection, never fear disgrace. The world might talk—God knew it would—but he could shield her from the worst of it. With his name. His vows.
