Page 9 of What Happens in Hedone

He already knew this woman would offer a release unlike anything he’d ever known—the breaking of the barriers he’d been building since birth. She would batter through them like a tidal surge against a sea wall, and he’d be swept away into oblivion.

She pulled away. It was as if she sensed the thought that suddenly froze him. She lifted her head and stepped back and put a hand on his chest as if she meant to hold herself upright, hold him at bay, but also keep her own distance. She had barriers, too.

She stared at him, her face flushed, her lips kiss-swollen. Her breath came fast. But she was the first to gather her thoughts.

“Did you taste it?” she asked, panting. “The pomegranate.”

He curled his palm over hers, not to dislodge, not to press, but to hold the connection. “Not nearly enough,” he said.

She tugged her hand free and stepped away. Their black-garbed hostess appeared behind her as if conjured.

“Come back tomorrow, Lord Hephaestus,” his goddess said, and then pressed a finger to her lips as if to keep herself from saying more.

It took the entire walk back to Farren’s lodgings in Wykeham Terrace for Jay’s heartbeat to return to normal, for the roar of arousal to abate. Even then, the chill night air, laden with the smell of the sea, did not clear his head.

Why should it feel like a betrayal to his nymph that he had kissed a goddess? The one had offered herself, taking the liberty of their disguises, no promises, no consequences once he walked away. His nymph was not meant to be soiled by touch, not outside of avowals and promises, and he had made none.

And yet. Jay tossed and turned for a long time, torn by two equally haunting visions. It had been an age since a woman had stirred him to such a state of arousal, and here he was, struck twice in one day. He took himself in hand, but the release was not the relief he sought, only a temporary abatement from his torment.

Erato had told him to return the next day. He could, and he could have her in his arms again, he was sure. But if he chose the goddess, he must abandon the nymph.

And which did he truly want, anyway? The pleasures of the flesh, or the pleasure of—something else?

He didn’t know.

Chapter Three

She had told him to find her at the rock pool. She hoped he had realized that.

He did. She recognized him the instant he appeared, a dark silhouette against the white chalk cliffs, the elemental god at home in his domain. He spotted her and set out across the shingle.

Effie’s heart leapt like a hare from its burrow and took off running, trailing relief and an eagerness so sharp it made her palms tingle.

She sat back on her several layers of petticoats and pushed back her bonnet, which was having a bad go of it in the breeze. She never took such an interest in men. She was not a ninny, she was not coy, and she secretly snickered at women who simpered and flirted their fan and tried every trick they knew to gain a gentleman’s attention, even though she was adept at such tricks herself.

This was different. She did not want his attention for tricks. She wanted him to look at her boldly, in earnest, the way he’d regarded her on the beach yesterday. He’d worn the precise expression she felt when she lifted a rock to discover something marvelous, an astounding expansion of the world she thought she knew.

She watched him come, striding in that arrogant way men had, owners of the earth. He was very splendid. He wore a plain riding coat and only one waistcoat, gray silk patterned with diamonds, his cravat a snowy cascade over his chest. Such a chest. He wore tall black boots with pantaloons that didn’t cling, as some men wore them.

Yet her builder was precisely the sort of well-shaped man who ought to wear clingy pantaloons, as a service to the viewing public. He had such strong thighs. She’d leaned against him last night—or he leaned against her, contact had been made—and he was solid as an oak.

Also, though she was not conversant in these things, Effie was certain he’d been aroused.

By her.

She’d kissed him. What a stupendous launch to her last summer of freedom.

She’d have laid wagers he would come again for Lady Erato. Who would not take a boon freely offered, without return, without consequence? She’d hardly dared hope he would come for her, plain Effie Stanier.

He smiled at her as he neared, and her heart went off in loops. What a goose she’d been yesterday, prating on to him about rocks and kelp. She’d quite lost her mind. But a handsome gentleman standing bootless in the water—uncaring of how shocking he was being, completely absorbed in a handful of mud—she’d sensed a fellow creature. Someone, like her, who was accustomed to the bounds of propriety, could go along quite well in the train of convention when he must, but was ready to bolt harness the moment someone wasn’t looking.

And when he spoke to her so easily, his deep voice so teasing, his eyes focused on her and reflecting the gray clouds of the sky—well, her thoughts had rushed up like geysers and she gave vent to them freely, as if she hadn’t been trained from the cradle to restrain her emotions, her eagerness, her puppyish ways, to act a young lady who was a credit to her family and her breeding.

She was going to do it again. Breeding escaped her when he was about, and the real Effie broke through. Her family wouldn’t approve of going on with strange men, but her family hadn’t arrived in Brighton yet. He’d found her, and she’d been crammed in a barrel and hooped down a hill, her stomach tilting end over end, the most glorious weightless feeling. She was either going to be transported by delight or crash into pieces when some unforeseen obstacle arose.

“Miss Iphigenia,” he said, and his voice was as it had been at the club last night, smoky and dark. Her fingertips tingled, recalling the heat of his mouth.

“Mister…Sand.”