Page 59 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

His mouth, warm and smiling and red with wine, was right there.

Delicious. Forbidden. Wrong. Her thrill had become a sick surge of wanting. Wanting in the way a candle wants a flame—self-destructively, knowing that it will be an end to both.

Aurienne had not suffered temptation until she resisted pressing her lips to that mouth.

She knew exactly what she was doing, bringing her knees on either side of him, and he knew exactly what he was doing, running a hand hungrily up her leg, and she knew what she wanted, and he knew what he wanted, and yet, they did not go beyond. They withheld.

This wasn’t just any man. This was Osric Mordaunt.

And yet. She wanted to.

And yet. She shouldn’t.

She was repulsed, wanting, pushing away, drawn in.

They did not cross the threshold. They touched it. They teetered along the edge. They brought their faces together, and their lips brushed in fairy kisses so light they might have been wishes.

Not enough.

He was hard. She wanted to grind against him.

What was she doing? There was a cost to this. Self-respect, dignity, the honour of her tacn.

Mordaunt pulled his hands away and pressed his fingers into the chaise instead of her skin. He waited. He left the decision in Aurienne’s hands.

And she, normally so decisive, did not know what to do. She hung in a space of irresolution, strange and unfamiliar. As always, the little waves of reason stirred, and asked, What would be the benefits, the risks? What would be the consequences? Was she who so valued order and category, who panicked at the least blurring of lines, going to cross this one? This wasn’t a false kiss in front of an audience at a party. There was no pretext. There was no excuse.

She could draw a new line. Separate physical want from emotional entanglement. There would be no danger that way. It had nothing to do with love. It would be compartmentalisation of a different sort.

Why was she like this? Why couldn’t she be supple and careless, why did it have to be this harrowing, panting effort to hold the compartments shut even as they cracked and struggled open?

Because she feared the fall. Because he was a Fyren. Because lessons learned. Because Amagris.

Because all of these things—forever? How long could one keep denying oneself a moment of pleasure?

Aurienne was agonised by remorse and guilt. She rationalised to the point of paralysis. She compressed the squirming feelings into their compartments. There they must remain, until they were dried and desiccated and no longer a threat.

She slipped out of Mordaunt’s arms and off the chaise. His fingers trailed down the back of her skirts as she walked away.

Mordaunt remained where he was. He put his hands behind his head. He recovered his composure. His untucked shirt, open halfway down, completed the portrait of the raffish drunk.

“Running away again?” came the inevitable taunt—because this was just a game, because she was a safe flirt.

“I thought it prudent,” said Aurienne.

“Must we be prudent?” asked Mordaunt.

Aurienne made no answer. She had none. Prudent for what? Prudent for whom? Neither of them would remember this tomorrow.

“Come back,” said Mordaunt. “Sit on me. I’m very comfortable.”

Aurienne retreated to the balcony rail in a welter of confusion. She took steadying breaths.

Mordaunt abandoned the chaise longue and wove his unsteady way towards Aurienne. He did not stand quite next to her at the balcony, rather more behind, though one hand came around her to grasp the rail.

“What are you doing?” asked Aurienne.

“Looking at the moon,” he said, but she felt his breath along the side of her neck.