Page 42 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
The emotion between them seemed to intertwine with their history, their harsh words and close proximity combining with the illusion of privacy that the wings provided in a dangerous way.
Without thinking about it Corin tugged on her arm, half-surprised when she came to him without so much as a hint of fight.
Her torso brushed his, the edge of her bodice sending all further thought from his mind.
Blazes! What she did to him…
Chapter 15
Imelda was sure of three things: Corin could have convinced the most devout of nuns to remove her habit he was so silver of tongue, she was a fool for even hearing him out in the first place, and she had never felt more on fire than she did the moment that he tugged her to him.
Her mind was a tangle of indecency and need so wanton that it pushed her breath clear out of her ribs. She could feel every muscle in his chest tense and hard against hers, and her mind once more conjured that image of the spattering of hair that she now knew lay there.
“Corin…”
His name came out too breathy by far, laced with the desire that sang through her veins.
And Corin’s eyes darkened.
His whole face shifted as he bound one arm around her waist and dragged her even more firmly against him. There was no time at all between her noticing such and the lowering of his face, yet Imelda could have sworn that years passed between them.
She was nineteen years old all over again, all of the drama between them forgotten and the only relevancy that need that pulsed so deeply within her it felt like it had engraved itself into her bones.
She had dreamed of kissing Corin. For two years she had imagined what it might feel like, the confluence of emotions that would take place within her when it happened, and nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it.
His lips were hot and demanding against hers, his fingers spreading against the small of her back as he tightened his grip against her. It took everything in her not to melt right on the spot, her own hands coming up tentatively to rest just beneath his jaw, her lips opening against the impassioned onslaught of his mouth.
Oh. God.
The noise that left her was a whispered mewling sound, her throat vibrating over it as she found her own grip tightening, pulling his face closer to her own as something dark and wanton unfurled inside of her lower belly.
“Imelda.” Her name was a whispered prayer against her lips, his tongue tracing the bottom curve as his hand drifted lower, bunching in the skirts directly over her bottom. His fingers flexed there, digging into the curve just above her thigh and pulling her leg up as though he meant her to mount him then and there.
And she would have.
God, how it stained her to know such a thing.
Nothing could have stopped her, her tongue tangling against his and all rational thought fleeing her.
Nothing except the sudden burning light of the gaslights coming to life around them, the darkness of the stage wings traded for the spotlight on the actors to come.
Both of them sprung from one another as the rest of the world faded back into focus; the sound of approaching talking and laughter felt like ice down the back of Imelda’s dress.
Her eyes jerked to Corin’s; those dark depths still full of a desire that stained her own lips. Her very soul.
She couldn’t breathe. She watched as he took a step closer as if to reach out to her again.
And she fled.
Without a word, without a backward glance, she ran.
***
Imelda felt as if Corin’s hands had left imprints on her skin—stained red like the desire that had burned between them and branding her for the harlot that she was. She couldfeelhis hands and his lips even hours after she had run from the theatre, the memory like a burning cross that she had to bear.
She just wished she felt more shame than yearning when she did so.
“Are you even listening, Miss Merrit?” Charlotte asked in amused exasperation from her side.
