Her forehead lifted from his shoulder.
He could feel her breath against his cheek and such crushing desire arced through him, desperate and needy and unbound.
For Gwen. Beautiful Gwen.
And he knew there was a myriad of reasons as to why his hand should not tighten in that silken hair.
Why he shouldn’t tilt her chin to the side.
Why he shouldn’t turn his head till their lips nigh touched.
But all those reasons were cast into the pitch dark as the wayward fingers of his other hand schemed to thread over her hip.
His body hardened with want, the air bitter yet he was afire.
Lips trembled against one another. Her breasts heaving against his chest.
He pulled her nearer.
Hell, he was–
“Ready or not, I’m coming!” echoed Mari’s shout from the ground floor.
She tore herself from his arms. “I must go…” He could hear her pitching breath. “I’ve…I’ve left a lit candle in my room.” And she twisted, blundered in the dark. Something thudded.
“Gwen!”
He reached out but his cane clattered to the floorboards and he cursed his damn leg as solely the soft patter of feet stumbling down the attic stairs could be heard, fading into the distance; he’d never catch her.
Tristan twisted and cursed, thumped a stack of trunks with a fist, all the reasons to stay away pelting him.
She had only ever been good to him, a valued friend, and yet he’d allowed his bloody hands to roam, desire overriding all.
Hell, she must have felt his rampant need, and he’d even palmed her backside. What had he been thinking?
He couldn’t lose Gwen. Have her think him some wretched passion-starved beast intent on any lone female. All he’d wanted was…her.
Stretching out his hands, he stumbled about, stubbing his boot on this and that until he came across the door. The staircase appeared as a pit of further blackness but he stuck his palms out either side to steady himself and limped down.
He was on the last tread when he cocked his ear. Swore he’d heard…laughter.
He shook his head and scowled. Old houses forever made strange noises.
And he slammed the attic door shut.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
“I did nothing but rejoice in a solitude so new, so salutiferous, so total.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
The beach lay empty, the wide sky and endless sea as blue as cornflowers. Tristan chased her flowing hair, her pale skirts fluttering a few paces beyond his reach, her feet bare, laughter streaming.
Hell, his heart flooded and he rushed on, threw his head back, laughing also, nearly there, his hand outstretched to her as she turn–
