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“No, it was a daughter of the Count of Derryman, which you are.”
Her face scrunched up in frustration.
Gods, he wanted to kiss her.
“I’ll be reading this contract,” she declared.
She’d be doing nothing of the sort since he was lying through his teeth.
He was also going to have her.
And nothing, not even she, was going to stand in his way.
“We barely know each other,” she stated.
“My father met my mother a week before their wedding, was in her presence thrice, and he fell madly in love with her and still mourns her passing.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you’re falling in love with me?”
In lust, that deed was done.
In love, they’d see.
“You’re soft, yet strong.”
“Sir,” she said urgently as she began moving backwards.
That was because he was moving toward her.
“You’re cunning and clever,” he went on, moving wide to herd her from the door.
“Lord Remington.”
“Loren.”
“I—”
“You dress impeccably.”
“I didn’t pick my clothing.”
“I don’t care.”
“Ummmm…” She drew that out until she hit a chair in front of her father’s desk, corrected the wrong way, and presently, she was pinned against the desk with his body.
“I like looking at you,” he murmured to her mouth, one of the many things on her he liked looking at.
“Your grace.”
He lifted his gaze to hers and growled, “Loren.”
“Oh my,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling rapidly, brushing against his own.
“You’ll forgive my brazen language, I’m sure,” he said. “But you’ve also got an arse I’m fairly certain was made for my hands.”
“Wow,” she breathed.
“Mm,” he purred.
“My family is currently a mess,” she reminded him.
“Nothing like stability to sort that,” he retorted.
“I know nothing of Hawkvale. At all. I didn’t grow up here.”
“And that matters?”
“My sister—”
“Yes, let’s talk about Maxine. If your father cuts you off, which I feel certain he will, who will pay for her care?”
“Shit,” she let slip, an odd word, perhaps improperly used, but since, either way, in Hawkvale they had its equivalent, it was not one he didn’t understand.
“Indeed,” he replied.
“I’m not sure a strong marriage is formed on the foundation of a woman who needs care for a head injury.”
“I’ve seen them formed on less.”
“Where I come from, you marry for love.”
“Fleuridia has these fanciful notions, but that doesn’t mean they’re unsound.”
“Do you have a response for everything?”
“Do you have any real, solid reason not to wed me?”
That stymied her.
He grinned.
She watched his mouth form it.
Fuck, he needed to kiss her.
“Satrine.”
Her eyes drifted up to his.
And then she destroyed him.
“I don’t want you to feel beholden to me,” she whispered. “What you’re offering is more beautiful than words can describe. And I’m grateful for it. But years pass, and thoughts inevitably form. As do regrets. You’re a fine man, so very lovely and protective. You deserve to marry for something as fine as you. Not a woman who needs your money and protection to take care of her family.”
“You’ve just described every aristocratic marriage in the realm, save the king’s, and that was arranged by a malevolent she-god in hopes of bringing a plague to the land.”
“Wh-what?”
“The troubles.”
“Oh, yes. Those.”
He spanned her hip with his hand.
Held her eyes.
And whispered. “Marry me.”
Her body melted partially into his.
“God, that was sweet and hot and romantic. You’re like, impossible to refuse,” she mumbled.
“Then don’t refuse me.”
She studied his throat.
“Satrine.”
Her gaze shot to his.
“Make me one promise,” she demanded.
“What is it?”
“You’ll never hate me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Just…promise.”
Loren was an excellent judge of character.
One might even say expert.
So he had utterly no qualms answering, “I promise.”
“Right then, let’s do it.”
Bloody…yes.
“Sealed with a kiss,” he murmured, lowering his head.
“Oh God, if you’re as good of a kisser as I think you are, I’m about to die,” she said, watching his mouth fall.
With that mouth against hers, he caught her eyes and warned, “Prepare, sweeting. But rest assured, when I’m done with you, I’ll revive you.”
She mewed a mew he felt in his cock and arched into him automatically.
He slanted his head and took her mouth.
She opened her lips, accepted his tongue, then sucked it in deeper.
Bloody hell.
He knew it.
Magnificent.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up, deep into his body.
She wound her arms around his neck, holding fast, and opened herself further.
No surprise, she gave. She gave it all.
And all of it was her.
Sweet and tart and generous and warm and tangy and heady.
Before what was happening in his cock made him take it too far, he tore his lips from hers, used his hand at the base of her head to tip it back, and ran his nose over her chin and down her throat.
Her scent was as intoxicating as she was.
Yes, by damn, he’d made the right decision.
And she had too.
“I’m not feeling revived, Loren,” she gasped to the ceiling.
He lifted his head, righted hers, and smiled down at her, her swollen lips and her sultry eyes, but ignored the discoloration under the left one.
