Page 22 of A Touch Wicked
“No. It allows me to appreciate you more.” His hands slid down her neck to the tops of her shoulders. “The feel of your skin.” Down her breasts to her stomach. “The shape of you. Every part I might otherwise miss.”
He traced the lines of her body like she was a work of art. Like he wanted to be able to shut his eyes and draw her from touch. He kissed across her skin, inch by inch. Then he laid himself on top of her, their bodies pressed together, and Emma knew she would never forget how perfectly he fit there.
“Tell me your name,” he whispered against the pulse of her throat.
“Selene.”
James nipped at her, as if in chastisement. “Your real name. Tell me, and I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
Emma shook her head. She couldn’t, even amid the terrible thoughts —fake, fraud, liar— because then this would end. And god help her, she wanted to keep him right where he was, so close to her heart.
“I can’t.”
He paused, his breath coming fast. “Don’t want or can’t?”
Emma shut her eyes, knowing she had to lie. She couldn’t keep stealing time from him. “Can’t. I’m married.”
The lie sat so uneasily on her tongue, she was surprised she didn’t choke on the words. But no, they came out so smoothly, despite their bitter taste. She deceived so well.
The curse he whispered against her skin made her feel like a villain. He’d wanted tocall on her, as if she were a woman he wished to court. A woman hecouldcourt.
“Then keep meeting me here. The day after tomorrow.”
She wanted to meet him here every night. Every morning. She wanted to wake up in his arms and meet his eyes without her mask. But she had duties to attend to — her work his sister. Their next essay was almost complete.
“Six days,” she told him. Then she kissed his chin. “In the meantime, go confront your inevitable.”
The words felt as dry as ash in her mouth.
Chapter 13
James's sister accepted Lord and Lady Ashby’s invitation to their annual ball, and he was obliged to accompany her.
He tapped his gloves against his trousers and paced the foyer, waiting for Alexandra. He should have been thankful for tonight’s distraction, but he’d never felt more unsettled in his life.
Go confront your inevitable.
Selene admitted she was married. Rather than accept it, James was more tempted than ever to find out her identity. She’d said that behind the mask, she was forgettable — did that mean her husband neglected her, just as her father did? What about hersomeone?
Christ, this was an obsession.
He needed a drink.
God knew liquor would help him endure the inevitable onslaught of debutantes and mothers. It had been an age since he'd gone to a ball and he intended to show up foxed enough not to look for the object of his obsession.
Besotted. He’d take besotted over obsession.
As James headed down the hall to his office, he heard someone singing in the library. James paused at the open door and peered inside to see Miss Dumont atop the ladder, reaching for a book on a high shelf.
Her voice was low and lovely, surprisingly sensual for such a guileless looking woman. How old was she again? He didn’t think she could be older than Alexandra.
She stopped singing and stared down at the book. “Stop,” she murmured to herself, flipping through the pages. “Stop thinking about it, Emma.”
Emma. Such a lovely name; it suited her. James found himself staring at her, at the way her pale yellow dress hugged the lean, delicate lines of her body.
When his sister had first asked him to hire Miss Dumont, he hadn’t thought much on her. She wasn’t plain, of course, but James had met many alluring women in his life.
But at this moment, with the lamplight just behind her, she looked magnificent. Beautiful. The shape of her reminded him of—
