Page 54

“I can give you that.” His words were soft, his voice grown husky, and he gentled around her. She took what she wanted as his hands breached the last defense of fabric and kissed him roughly, the stubble of his chin chafing against hers.

She sucked in a breath when his searching touch parted her folds, his fingers sweeping gently until she gasped, her back arching as if to keep his attention focused on that most sensitive place.

“Here?” he asked.

She didn’t nod, couldn’t speak. Instead, she covered his hand with her own and guided the circular motion of his fingers, setting pace and precision. Magnificent. Her hand fell limp and he continued on his own.

She felt him smiling against her mouth as he repeated the sweet, pressing motion … again, and again he touched her, until the sensations that had troubled every inch of her settled into that one delicious place.

He touched her differently than she touched herself. Less exact and unhurried. It was new and wonderful, and his very presence, which was all around her, made the pleasure dizzying. His coat behind her head and his hand at her nape, flexing and soothing. The warmth of his chest scraping against her bare breast. His teeth scratching lightly down the side of her neck, and his blessed other hand, well, it was doing very well, too.

She lifted her hips into him, but he never grew overconfident—he had learned what she liked and committed to it. Smart, tortuous man. His body moved slightly against her, in time with her own approach to the edge, and the hard press of his groin against her leg was thrilling: exemplary proof of his own arousal, his tandem feeling, all tangled up with hers.

His mouth was still at her neck, and she grew limp and useless, horrified of moving and disrupting what was to come. The ceiling blurred in her vision, her mouth sagging open.

Temperance and Prudence became two-dimensional, masterfully concocted by an artist’s hand rather than real, watchful beings, and then Rafe’s mouth returned to hers, blocking them altogether, and she squeezed him as if all the world depended upon the closeness between them. Release took her in waves, her head tipping back on a cry.

He rolled away from her. She breathed a sated laugh, staring up without really seeing. It was like learning her body again, these first moments after. Still hers, yes—she had regained use of her lungs and approximately half of her mind, residual tremors and twitches reminders of her bliss.

Her bliss, but he had given it to her. And for some reason, she loved that, that it had been Rafe she’d first trusted with such intimacies.

She turned to him and laid a hand to his cheek, stroking the shadow of his jaw. It was still raining. The sound blossomed around her, and the windows afforded just enough light to see the warm bits of him, the golden flecks in his stubble and his rumpled auburn waves. It seemed cruel, suddenly, that she had such limited skin of his to touch. Her gaze spanned the length of him, the protrusion of his trousers and the thick lines of his arms. Imagining wasn’t enough. She inched closer. “Let me touch you, now.”

His face remained upturned. One hand lay flush against the center of his chest, the other at his side. He was breathing hard. “Don’t worry over it,” he said cooly. “You’ve no obligation to return the favor.”

She laughed dryly. “Favor? Why, aren’t we”—her voice was rather loud, she suddenly awoke to their surroundings and looked around—“aren’t we past that now?”

He didn’t answer. She craved his gaze, to take back that lost, almost infatuated look he’d been giving her moments before. She edged even closer, pressing herself against his side. “Besides. I’m not offering because I feel obligated. I want to.”

She allowed her hand to go where it most ached to be, and the shape of him, so hard and her the cause of it, reawakened her desire like bellows fanning a flame. “I want to learn you.”

He sat up abruptly. His legs fell open, but his knee pushed her hand away. “I—”

She got a glimpse of his face before he bowed his head, raking a hand through his hair. Wild, red locks. She knew the feel of them between her fingers now.

“Rafe.” She laid a hand on top of his and smiled. “You can trust me with this.” As I have trusted you.

“Can I?” His mouth curved into a dark smirk. “You blackmailed me. Or have you forgotten the nature of our acquaintance?”

Her stomach dropped, and his hand went out from under hers as he stood. The rapid movement caused a brush of air, and the coolness went straight to her nipple. Mortification came over her. It was not a slow sensation to be coaxed; it fell rapidly, like an ax.

She shoved herself back into her gown. Yanked her sleeves higher. Found her cloak on the ground and flung it around herself.

“I cannot believe,” she said, rising and pursuing him with quick steps, “that you do not trust me after—after—”

Words did not come. It would be difficult to find just the right ones to recount all that had passed between them—in his office, in his arms, in that first touch over a cup of switchel, here, tonight.

His back was turned to her. Incredible how regimental he looked now that he stood at full height, his shoulders expanding and pulling at his white shirtsleeves where he crossed his arms. She would not be so desperate as to continue. He could have the decency to face her with a reply or he could go to the devil.

“I do trust you.” The words should have been comforting, but he spoke them maliciously. He faced her, his mouth tight. “Against all good sense and reason, I do trust you. But this?” He waved a hand dismissively in the space between them. “Even I know there’s nothing wise in continuing this.”

Sophie watched his hand. Tracked it, as it flopped to his side. Oh God. Oh God. Her heart rose to her throat, pounding sickly. That hand … him … This man had touched the most private parts of her. She had put herself in his possession, given him her vulnerability with confidence, allowed herself to be clay in his hands. And this was how he would attempt to mold her.

“You are not going to shame me,” she bit out, despising the tremble in her voice.

“I’m not—Sophie, I’m not shaming you—”

“Oh?” She stepped closer. His scent lived here, in this dangerous proximity. She would ignore it, refuse to find familiarity in it. “What is a lady expected to feel, when a man thrashes his hand so at her, the same hand that—”