Page 116 of Pride: The Rogue
As Lachlan reached behind him and drew the door shut, neither of them looked away.
Click.
That slight turn of the lock closing proved as painful as it was exhilarating…
Then, with a sexy languor so patently him, Lachlan pushed away from the door and strolled over.
Unblinking, Livian stared at him. She followed his approach; and thought of the last guest here—his future wife—who’d taken the same stroll.
A mental image melded together in her head of Lachlan and the duchess, their bodies—his all-masculine hardness and hers sensual, voluptuous curves—moving together in exquisite harmony…
“…I definitely desire him…”
Livian tried to get breath through her cinched lungs.
“…And I know Mr. Latimer desires me…”
The excruciating, hellish reverie continued wreaking havoc on her sanity as she saw Lachlan parting the duchess’ legs.
“…I need to be inside you, darlin’…”
Her lungs and throat burned from the weight of her sorrow.
“…Tell me you want that…”
He’d slide his length deep inside the striking widow…
“…I want you to watch me as I make you come…”
Sodeep he touched her to the very core.
“I want to see the exact moment I touch you so high and deep, you reach your climax…”
And misery touched every part of Livian’ssoul. She dug her fingertips into a talon-like grip that punctured the duchess’ opulent instrument and would leave lasting marks of Livian’s broken heart here for all time.
She managed to open her eyes and found Lachlan standing before her.
He dropped an elbow atop the pianoforte. “We meet again, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Yes, they did. “At your betrothed’s estate of all places,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice from trembling.
But not her heart.
That bloody, stupid, hurting organ mocked her with her pain for a man she’d known only the shortest while.
“She isn’t my betrothed,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
Not yet.
Until this very instant, until she’d heard it from this man’s lips, there’d been a fledgling hope inside Livian that the Duchess of Argyll’s words had merely been a hope she had for a future with Lachlan.
This confirmation from Lachlan was insupportable. She’d never survive this pressing grief.
Why? Why?Why would he marry her? Livian wanted to scream, sob, and tear at her hair like the Wailing Women who mourned the dead.
How was it possible for him to wear the same casual, half-grin he had when they’d sat across from one another at the St. George?
At her silence, Lachlan quirked a lazy eyebrow. “Not even a hello, darlin’?” he drawled.
