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‘Once’, ‘enough’ and ‘Otilia’ were three words that did not fit together. Even less at that moment when the little chit started teasing him in the same way he had teased her. Her tongue licked, her teeth nibbled, her mouth sucked.
Blasted fires of hell!
Blessed fires of hell!
He let her—would let her do whatever she wanted with him. He was past caring. And was past clear thought, come to that.
“Edmund,” Otilia pleaded.
And who was he to deny her?
In a blink, their mouths fused anew in yet another earth-shattering kiss. His ‘quite precarious situation’ skidded to downright life-threatening. Still not caring, chap.
By then, their mouths were devouring each other without an ounce of inhibition. Or a sign that they would halt.
The resounding opening of the second act broke in the air like a war drum. Separating themselves in a flash, they seemed to get hold of the place where they stood; in the very middle of a theatre full of noblemen thirsty for any morsel of scandal to alleviate their endemic boredom.
Their arms still held them close, so close their ragged breaths mingled between them. Her eyes lifted to his, confused. He took in all her face, the widened irises, the flushed cheeks, and those ripe red lips, swollen with his kisses. The will to catch them again emerged so strong it hurt like a thousand red-hot needles buried in his skin.
Her torso tilted an inch as though attempting to undo their entanglement. He made his arms fall to his sides, and his legs step back to give her room. With a push from the wall, she turned to the box beyond the closed curtains. With downcast eyes, Otilia reached the box and sat on her chair in a precise bearing that gave nothing away of their tryst of moments ago.
He followed her and, this time, sat the farthest away lest he
pounce on the tempting woman without even thinking.
A
After a sleepless, feverish night, Otilia sat in the morning room, trying to push a little breakfast down her throat. With small success.
Her memory contorted, twisted and revolved round and round, trying to find a drop of sense in the events of the previous evening. If anyone asked her how they ended up plastered to the cloak niche wall enmeshed in a kiss that blew her world upside down, turned her inside out, she would not have known how to answer. One second, they were bantering; the next no words would be uttered for their mouths had been too busy with other concerns. The memory of it all caused her body to repeat the reactions of yesterday, with every single disastrous, delicious detail.
Damn the man and his expert, carved lips.
When the opera finished, they had stood up and left the box wordlessly. Treading through the throngs and nodding politely to the revellers, they made it to the carriage and home without even looking at each other. With a murmur of goodnight, she took refuge in her chamber.
Ask her if she got embarrassed with the whole affair. Yes, she did. But that seemed the least of the emotions clashing inside her. At her age and on the shelf, there was no point regretting a kiss. It would probably be the nearest she came to experiencing any physical contact with a man. With the most attractive man she ever met. Had she had the opportunity to choose with whom she would share the only adult kiss of her lifetime, she would not have thought twice. Edmund. Blasted, overbearing, impossible-to-ignore Edmund, despite the clutter of years lingering between them.
No, she did not feel much embarrassment, or even regret. She reprimanded herself in the night mostly because she had given in to him. When he demanded it. Where he demanded it. Because he demanded it. She had given him his name and everything she could possibly yield in a simple kiss. She had held nothing back. Not a shred of reservation, or bashfulness. Or shame. From the first touch of his mouth on hers, he divested her of even a token of resistance. And she let him. She would have let him do anything to her, willingly. Pleadingly.
All right, so her pride came out bruised. She would survive it, surely.
But not only that. The way she gave herself with such complete abandon proved she had no defences where he was concerned. It scared her. It scared the darn out of her. Because it proved he still held power over her, even after all these years. She did not like it one bit. She must steel herself against his influence or risk being scathed for a second time, which would amount to extreme stupidity. He hurt her once, badly. If it happened anew, she did not predict the effects on her. And she preferred not to for that matter.
A movement at the entrance caught her attention. The devil himself stood there, his all imposing male presence dressed in a dark suit, with damp hair, shaved, and the scent of clove soap floating around him. She stiffened and froze her expression. To give away her weakness would only make him use it against her.
“Good morning,” she said as her gaze found a point over his broad shoulder, “my lord.” If this was the only way she had to resist him or his imperiousness, so be it. His name on her lips melted her insides yesterday. Who would predict what it might do today?
He narrowed his eyes and merely nodded before he sat on a chair and motioned for the footman to serve him coffee.
“Are your chambers to your liking, Miss Kendall?” he inquired with apparent politeness.
But his glare fell on her like a scalding avalanche. And a flush erupted on every part of her skin like one of those geysers she once read occurred in Iceland. Her eyes ventured to his, and lightning struck her. They lowered with a flick. To hide it, she nibbled on a piece of bread and discovered it tasted like sand.
“Perfectly, my lord,” she said to his shoulder again, and forced her attention back to her tea.
“I trust the bed is comfortable.” His rumble carried that tantalising syrupy quality.
He was taunting her, the scoundrel. ‘Bed’ and ‘Edmund’ are two elements which fit all too well together, as they should never do. So much that another eruption deepened the red on the surface of her. She would not allow him to unbalance her though.
