"Both." He rolled her beneath him again, his mouth finding her throat. "Definitely both."
Outside, the storm continued to rage, but Catherine barely noticed. She was too busy creating a storm of her own, here in this bed with a man whose last name might not even be real. Tomorrow would come with all its complications and consequences. But tonight...tonight she was just Catherine, and he was just James, and that was enough.
More than enough.
When he kissed her again, she gave herself over to it completely, to him completely. Whatever tomorrow brought, she'd have this—one perfect night when she chose her own path, her own pleasure, her own destiny.
"Again?" she asked when he finally let her breathe.
"Again," he confirmed, his hands already moving with intent. "And again. And again. Until you beg me to stop."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll watch the sunrise together, thoroughly debauched and completely unrepentant."
"That sounds perfect."
"You're perfect," he corrected, and proceeded to show her exactly what he meant.
By the time the storm finally began to calm, somewhere near dawn, they were exhausted, sated, and wrapped around each other like they'd been sleeping together for years instead of hours. Catherine's body ached in delicious ways, bearing the marks of his possession, but she'd left her own marks on him as well, she noted with satisfaction.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"That I should probably be scandalized by everything we just did."
"But you're not?"
"No. I'm rather proud, actually. Who knew I had such hidden talents?"
He laughed, pulling her closer. "Minx. You'll be the death of me."
"You keep saying that, yet you seem remarkably alive."
"For now." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Sleep, Catherine. Tomorrow, or rather today, will come soon enough."
"Will you be here when I wake?"
"Where else would I be?"
But even as she drifted off, safe in his arms, she heard the doubt in his voice. They both knew this was temporary, stolen time that would end with the storm. When morning came properly, they'd go back to being strangers—Miss Mayfer and Mr. Wrentham, two people whose paths had crossed by chance and would diverge just as quickly.
Still, she thought as sleep claimed her, it had been worth it. Whatever came next, whatever price she paid for this night of freedom, it had been worth it.
Besides, she would never see him again.
Chapter 4
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a gentleman most insistent upon seeing you. Says it's a matter of utmost urgency regarding your... family concerns."
James Wrentham, though that wasn't the name he'd been born with, came awake instantly, years of military training making the transition from sleep to alertness immediate. The voice belonged to Hartwell, speaking through the door in that careful tone innkeepers used.
"A moment, if you please," James called back, his voice still rough from sleep. Or perhaps from the activities that had kept him awake most of the night.
Catherine stirred against him, making a soft sound of protest that made him shudder, even half-asleep and thoroughly debauched, she affected him like no woman ever had. Her hair spilled across his chest in waves of silk, her breath warm against his skin. One shapely leg was thrown over his, keeping him pinned in the most delightful way.
"James?" Her voice was drowsy, satisfied. The voice of a woman who'd been thoroughly pleasured and knew it.
"Shh, sweetheart. Just inn business. Go back to sleep."
