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“I do too,” I replied, my throat tightening around the words. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“We should never have done this. Any of this. But I can’t let you go.”
“Then how do we do this?”
“I don’t know, Whitney. I can’t see a way that doesn’t get us both in trouble.”
I didn’t want to think about it. I pulled him into me, wrapping my arms around his middle and pulling him as close as possible. His hands pulled my sweater free from my belt and traveled up my bare skin, over my bra. His breath came out in a sigh before his lips met mine again.
“I want you,” I whimpered. “Please, Rhys.”
He groaned, his mouth resting on my neck as he slipped his hands under my bra. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, losing myself to his touch.
Nothing else mattered. Nothing but this moment. Nothing but the feeling of his fingers on my heated skin and the taste of him on my tongue.
I was in deep. I was in love. And I didn’t know how to move forward knowing we each had so much to lose if we chose each other.
But that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to choose him. I’d give it all up to be with him.
I used to scowl and thumb my nose at the women I knew who’d done the same. The same women who came to Gatlington with only one thing in mind—finding a husband. They’d graduate with distinguished degrees, ready to take on the world, able to find their way on their own.
Yet they’d end up with a ring on their fingers and spend the next decade of their lives raising children and letting their husbands handle everything else. Not working. Not using the education they’d slaved over. Just existing.
But maybe I’d gotten it all wrong. I’d been looking at it the wrong way.
I’d give up everything if it meant being with Rhys. I could see us traveling. I could see me waking up in a canvas tent and watching him pour over artifacts every evening. I could see us buying a house somewhere, maybe in England, with a big yard and animals and children who had his same dark brown, ruffled hair and my green eyes.
We’d sit in the garden and watch them play, and none of this would have mattered in the end.
We’d be happy. I’d be fulfilled.
Had I been wrong? Or had knowing him just shifted my priorities to the point I wasn’t sure why I was spending my life sleepless and studying until the early hours of the morning? What was I working toward if I couldn’t be with him in the end?
Was this impossible feeling love, or desperation?
“Rhys, please,” I panted as his hands left my breasts and traveled lower, undoing my pants.
We were both out of our minds entirely. I had no notion of where I was any longer. The stone wall faded as his head reached between my legs and the tension that had been tightening every muscle reached a peak.
His fingers were warm against my sex, and I rolled my neck, resting my head on his shoulder.
I wanted more. I needed more. And my throat began to tighten as a flicker of reality fought its way to the forefront of my mind and reminded me of where we were, and what we were risking, and that we couldn’t do this.
But it flickered away as fast as it had come, replaced by a sudden memory.
“Rhys, stop,” I whispered.
He did, pulling away, but I pulled him back, my hands clutching his jacket. I could feel the heat coming off him like a fever and felt immediate guilt at how far I’d taken this.
“Christian knows,” I said shakily. “I know he does. I’m worried he’ll do something about it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He knows. He made a comment about how he’d heard I had a great fall break, and I’ve just had a feeling... He’ll try to use it against me. He’ll blackmail me to get what he wants.”
“Whitney—”
“He’ll force me to be with him. I know he will. And I’ll do it if it means protecting you—”
