Page 37 of A Proposition for the Comte
Reaching out, he drew his finger down the line of her breast, softly and with care. The skin all around his touch puckered into goosebumps, the nipple hardening into a tight and small bud as he watched her take in breath. There were things he did not know about her, big things that might change his world. Things like duplicity and greed and treason.
‘Harland was disappointed in my...skills...as a bride.’
These words came in a whisper. She made an attempt to say more, but he stopped her with a simple shake of his head.
‘And were you disappointed in him?’
He felt his manhood rise up further.
‘Yes.’
He could almost see her mind working and detected a quick thought of flight in the bruised eyes.
‘But you would still take the risk of it all?’
Shock held her motionless, but he was closer now, her breath on his cheek.
‘I would.’
His forefinger lay across her throat and then lifted, to her chin and then her lips, brushing across the fullness, feeling his way.
She was so beautiful she felt unworldly. He who had been with many different women in his life was suddenly as breathless as she was, and as uncertain. Sense told him to step back, to move away, to run while he still had the chance, but he couldn’t.
Her lips came beneath his, softly at first, finding out, and then slanting, the hitch of lust in him pounding against sense.
She allowed him in, opening under his pressure, wide and deep and true, her fingers clutching at his arms so that he could feel her nails even through fabric.
Drunk with want, he bunched the length of her hair in his fist and slid the injured hand behind her back. He could not refuse her, the risk between them both brutal and known. There were always shades of grey in any act of murder. His own existence had at least taught him that.
She felt him lift her as if she weighed nothing and bring her to the bed, felt the softness of the mattress and the way he came down over her, careful and gentle and yet tempered in need.
The candles flickered, lavender wisps of scent displacing the shadows into ghostly things, a ceiling full of movement. Neither light nor dark, but a place in between. His hand came again around her face, tracing a picture, understanding her want as he pushed at the fabric of her gown, exposing her shoulder and breast further. Shock had her rising, but he did not allow it, keeping her still. His hands were unsteady.
‘Violet.’
The hoarseness of his voice and the bigness of his body, skin to skin. She could feel his bones and flesh against her own, calling into tune, like a melody, the rhythm of the night inside. The quiet of the room, the fire in the grate. The snow outside in a cold and growing wind, the solid shield of him above.
Safety.
It held a physical presence that was unnerving.
There was not the slightest of doubt that this man with his dangerous eyes was a warrior, hewn in violence in the hidden corners of the world, the firelight silvering his skin and darkening his hair. But the unknown power of him was exhilarating, like a drug taken in the hope of joy. Well, for her the drug was also forgetfulness, the longed-for oblivion of a past that crowded into her memory and made her feel less of a woman.
This is who I am now.
This woman lying, caught between the fear of temptation and failure and between murder and treason. Her hand turned, clutching at his.
The only time was here, this night, this moment after the danger at the park. The urgency of it undid her and made her fragile when all she wanted was to be strong.
‘Do not wait. Do it now. Quickly.’
There, she had said it, out loud, given him the permission that he seemed to seek in his hesitation.
He laughed.
‘This husband of yours must have been greedy if he would not see to your needs first, my lady.’
‘My needs?’
