Page 10 of A Touch Wicked
He did neither. Instead, he murmured, “Of course. Forgive me.” He reached for her hand, and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. When he smiled, it was a touch wicked. “Who would you like to be, then?”
Emma liked this question. It held infinite possibilities. She wanted to be everything. She wanted to be everyone.
But she couldn’t tell him such things; he wouldn’t understand. So she pulled him against her and whispered, “How about just your lover?”
“Good answer,” he said, as she settled on top of him again. “Very, very good answer.”
* * *
After they made love again,Emma reluctantly rose from the bed to gather her clothes. It was late, and she needed to return home before James.
“Time for me to go.”
James propped himself up on an elbow. Emma couldn’t help but pause for a moment of appreciation. He was every bit as beautiful as she had expected — his body muscled from sports Alexandra had informed her were too numerous to list.
But only a lover would know how the candlelight kissed every dip and contour of him, and made his blue eyes blaze with inner light. Or that there was a small scar just over his hip bone, and another across his left shoulder. Emma knew the texture of them both; she had licked her way across his skin, but not as much as she had wished.
She still had more to discover. One night wasn’t enough.
“Members have permission to stay in the rooms here until morning,” James said. “Interested?”
Emma sighed at him again, and he smiled because she was ogling. Damn the man. “Yes. But I can’t.”
For a moment, he looked as though he were going to ask her questions. Awhywritten in his features.
In the end, he let out a resigned breath and said, “Very well,” and helped her with her clothes.
When Emma had her cloak buttoned, she turned to him, uncertain now. After what they had done . . . she was afraid to voice anything. Afraid of what she might say.
“Thank you,” she managed. “For tonight.”
James pulled her against him, and she could feel the heat of his skin through her clothes. His eyes met hers, so bright even through his mask. “The next Masquerade is in a sennight,” he said. “Will you meet me here? Same room.”
Emma hadn’t expected this to last more than a night. She had hoped that whatever lust she’d felt toward James Grey would wane, that it was but a fancy, an itch to be scratched. But Emma Dumont was her mother’s daughter, and the Dumont curse would not spare her.
“Yes,” she whispered, lifting her chin to kiss him. “Yes.”
Their kiss was hot and hard. James murmured against her lips, “If you think of me at all during the next six nights, use my name when you make yourself come. James.”
Emma almost froze. He’d given her his name — his real name. Didn’t he understand this wasn’t supposed to be real? She was torn between wondering if he had lost all his senses and burning with incandescent joy becausehis name, his name, his name. He wanted her to use it.
“James,” she breathed, kissing him again. “James.”
He tore away with a groan, stepping back from her. “If you don’t go now, I’m dragging you back into that bed.”
“Right.” Emma sounded breathless.
She barely remembered making it to the door when she heard his voice again. “Wait.” When Emma turned back, James said, “What shall I call you? When we meet again.”
When we meet again.
She hadn’t made plans for that. There weren’t supposed to be names or questions. But now she found she wanted to keep this — keephim— close to her heart, a secret just for herself.
So she said the first thing that came to mind: “Selene. Call me Selene.”
Emma heard him whisper that name in wonder behind her as she closed the door.
Chapter 7
