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‘Yes,’ she confirmed, not recognising the huskiness of her voice.
Her stomach tightened. A tight sensation was arrowing between her legs. Making her hotter. Wetter. Her world had caught fire and it was burning around her. Everything she’d known, loved, was in question or gone. She wasn’t grieving for the mother she’d never known, and she wasn’t grieving for the life she’d had before she’d found out she was adopted. Because she’d been happy. She knew this in her heart. She was grieving for all the moments she might have had if she’d stood up for her own decisions, stood against her parents’ fears.
They had moulded her for twenty-one years into the daughter they wanted.Their miracle baby.Not allowed to make mistakes, big or small. Not allowed to be anything other than the daughter they wanted.
But what didshewant?
She wanted this.
She wantedhim.
Flora stepped over the threshold.
‘What is this place?’
It was nothing like the room she had downstairs. These rooms were...more.Rich... Vibrant...
‘A room for the night,’ he answered, his voice a seductive, deep drawl behind her.
‘It’s beautiful.’
A spacious entry hall with a sparkling speckled marbled floor led to a carpeted lounge scattered with rugs of silk. Heavy-cushioned sofas and high-backed chairs surrounded intimate statues of women of old, cut from black stone, and tall lamps and glided mirrors highlighted the way to more rooms.
‘Magical...’ she breathed.
For tonight, she belonged here. No alarm for the morning milking. No routines to maintain. Tonight she wasn’t a farm hand. She wasn’t the abandoned daughter of an addict. She was anonymous. Free to explore the unexplored. To explore the woman never given a voice. Never allowed to use words without trying them out in her head first.
She turned to him. Her confidence roaring, she asked, ‘Is there a bedroom here?’
He nodded. His features were drawn. Tight. ‘A big bedroom.’
‘Will you take me to it?’ she asked, praying her confidence wouldn’t desert her.
When she went home—back to the farm, to her name—she wanted this night to be hers. Not her parents’. Not a fabricated experience they’d built for her. Something she’d created and experienced all on her own.
‘I can...’ he told her, and her heart soared. ‘But only if you want it. You can leave.’ He nodded towards the concealed door she’d entered by on the far side of the terrace. ‘Or you can take my hand.’
He turned his hand palm forward and held it out to her like an offering.
Choice.
Wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? And he’d chosen her, hadn’t he? The woman she was right here and now. And she wanted to commit to whatever was happening between them. This shared moment of grief turned to passion.
She slid her fingers through his.
His hold was soft, but strong. He guided her down a long hallway towards a door and pushed open the heavy oak to reveal a room of splendour. And a four-poster bed so big it monopolisedeverything...
Tonight, she’d have no regrets. Tomorrow, she’d go home and remember the doubts—the pain.
Just once, she was going to let her herself act on feelings...
Her grip tightened on his and Flora led the way.
Towards the bed.
It took every shred of control he had left to keep his hold on her hand loose. Not to hurry. To lose himself in her gentle confidence.
Gracefully, she kept on walking towards the bed. His jacket drowned her. Cloaked her in what was his. Protected her from the heat of his gaze on her back. Hid the dip in her spine his fingers had smoothed over as he’d dragged her hips over his mouth.
