Page 39 of The Boxer’s Belle

Flushed and rumpled from his attentions, her chest heaved in harsh, panted breaths. Her dark eyes were glassy, lashes fluttering above them. The delicate skin of Bella’s throat was reddened and raw from the burn of his stubble.

He’d touched her. Marked her. Claimed too much—again.

Damn.

CHAPTER 10

This moment was too much, too fast. Miles snatched each and every one of her senses for his own. He’d reduced her to raw nerve and want.

With a choked gasp, she pressed against his chest. “Wait, Miles⁠—”

His supportive hands vanished at once. Bella nearly tipped over before catching herself on the bannister.

Ice surged through her. The earth tilted as though she were on one of those tiny ships in a bottle, dropped from a devastating height. She was plummeting through the air atop the water. All she could see was the ground rushing to meet her.

Bella shook away the sudden disorientation, her gaze catching Miles’s. She knew that horrified expression; it had haunted her for years. Lead settled in the depths of her gut.

“Lady Arabella, I⁠—”

Lady Arabella.

“Don’t.” Damp curls brushed her cheeks as she shook her head against whatever pitiful excuse West intended to offer up. “I cannot⁠—”

“I— Lady Arabella,” he tried again. Bella refused to meet his gaze, wouldn’t subject herself to experience the appalled twist of his mouth or pity in the set of his clear eyes. “We— I— I should not have done that. It was entirely inappropriate and⁠—”

“Enough, Weston. We need not belabor the subject. I am neither your opponent nor a heavy bag. You needn’t keep punching.” Her eyes burned as she blinked away furious tears before they could form. But she couldn’t hide the thin, stripped note in her voice—her weakness.

His swallow was loud, pointed over the pounding of the rain on the aged roof. “I am not— That is not my intent.”

She raised one hand, silencing him again, gaze still fixed on his chest. “We have nothing to say to each other, Weston. This never happened.”

His throat bobbed beneath his loosened cravat. “Right. We should— The rain has slowed. We should return to the house.” The hand West offered was the slightest bit unsteady.

“You should return to the house.” And truly, how dare he invade her sanctuary, kiss her, and then demand that she leave? He was lucky she was too overwhelmed for a more dramatic display.

West blinked slowly, as though she spoke some mysterious language from lands unknown. His lips pursed before smoothing out. At last, his head bobbed once before he pivoted on muddy boots. The filth clung to the worn wooden floor with a revolting squelching sound as he cut the two steps to the open door. When he crossed the threshold, West took the air with him.

Her gaze clung to his retreating form, stoic and steady even in his undignified trudge across the muck.

Finally, West ducked beneath the oak branch that overhung the path back to the house, and she lost sight of him. Her lungs regained function, and she choked on a ragged inhale.

Bella flopped in a pathetic, damp heap on the stairs. She couldn’t bear it—not again.

Time after time, they played their roles. The tender buds of attraction split through the snow into a riot of color. Then temptation would grow and ripen into the fiery blooms of autumn. With the last rally of warmth, they would crash together—too bright, too hot. And every time the blaze sputtered out, leaving nothing but icy devastation.

And once again, Bella was left alone with the taste of his lips on her tongue, the echoes of his moans in her ears, and the lingering warmth of his skin on her fingers.

Familiarity did not lessen the ache in her chest. Nor had the years dulled her memory of it.

Bella awoke, nestled warm and safe against Miles’s chest when the morning sun crept through the gangway, snatching her peace. She could not recall another such moment of contentment, of hope, between sleep and wake. She pressed up to meet his gaze. A bright smile broke out, and she pressed her lips against his statue-still ones.

And the first whisper of doubt crept in.

“Should get dressed,” he grunted, his hazy gaze refusing to meet hers.

“Very well,” she whispered, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and pressed herself up with a palm against his chest.

West shifted from beneath her and stood to gather his clothing.