Page 79 of A Tempest of Desire
He was trying to appease her, and she wasn’t in the mood to be appeased. “There were a few raised eyebrows, a few narrowed gazes.”
“Has it happened before? An insult?”
“Of course it has. Whenever Hollie took me to a lecture or the theater or even the horse races. Sometimes the slights were muttered behind my back, sometimes to my face.”
“What did he do about them?”
“Ignored them. Told me to ignore them as well. So those who issued them wouldn’t know they’d hit their mark. It would have drawn much less attention and caused less embarrassment if you’d simply ignored Chadbourne.”
“I protect what is mine, Marlowe.”
“But I am not yours.”
He crossed over to her so quickly she barely had time to note what he was doing before he was sitting beside her, his hand cupping her face. “Are you not?”
He trailed his lips along her throat, the heat from his mouth turning her anger into an emotion far hotter, far more dangerous to them both. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he growled.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she searched for the words to end this madness. Why with him did it always feel like a storm was swirling around her? Why did she want so desperately what she knew she should deny?
She grabbed the lapels of his coat, intending to shove him away from her, and instead she pulled him nearer. His mouth traveled down to an upper swell of a breast, and molten fire poured through her, unleashing a torrent of desire and need that she couldn’t have denied if her life depended on it.
Cradling his head, she lifted it and took his mouth with urgency, as if it provided all the sustenance she needed to live. Their tongues tangled, their breaths clashed. Their hands became greedy to touch forbidden skin.
He was dragging down her bodice. She was unbuttoning his trousers. When he sprung free, she knew triumph. He groaned low, a tormented keen as she wrapped her fingers around him. She whimpered when he latched onto her breast and suckled hard.
She felt they were trying to punish each other for the reality of their situation. They were not a couple who could go into proper places. They were meant for the shadows. For secret doors. For sin.
Tonight had brought the reminder home. He wasn’t one to ignore a slight, and she knew they could come as fast as the arrows slung by archers during a battle.
At that moment she hated her father, hated that his actions had denied her the very life he’d promised. She was angry at her mother for not being stronger. Mad at her younger self for choosing a path that had seemed to be easier but in the end was all the harder to traverse.
And worst of all, she was furious at this man for making her want everything she could never have. For making her squirm with need. For forcing her not to want to let him go.
He skimmed his fingers up her leg, drawing little circles over the sensitive flesh of her thigh, going higher and higher, until the circles became strokes where she was damp and ready for him.
He plunged into her and she cried out from the pure ecstasy of taking him into her body and holding him close. As he rocked against her, she grabbed his buttocks and urged him on, his thrusts hard and forceful, his grunts and groans echoing around her as the pleasure built to almost unbearable heights.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he ground out.
“I’m... not yours.”
His tempo increased, his thrusts more powerful. A storm to be reckoned with. But she’d faced storms before. She moved her hips in rhythm to his, taking and giving, until all the sensations converged, and she bit down on his shoulder to stop her cries from competing with Big Ben for volume. Her body spasmed and shook as a million stars erupted within it.
He released a tortured growl as he slammed into her one last time.
They both lay there on the bench, cramped and awkwardly positioned, their clothing askew as their rough breathing slowed. Finally, they began to extricate themselves from each other. Without a word, he helped her to put herself back together. Then he saw to himself.
She couldn’t look at him. She had no words. All she’d needed to utter was “stop.” Only, she hadn’t wanted him to cease his attentions. She would never want him to stop. Always she would want him to continue. Always she would want him. And therein resided the danger of obtaining a broken heart.
The carriage came to a halt. He shoved open the door, leapt out, reached back for her, and handed her down. He walked with her up the steps. She placed her hand on the latch before turning to him.
“We’re done,” she said quietly but with conviction.
“Marlowe—”
“We’re. Done.”
She went inside, leaving him there, and almost doubled over from the pain of doing so.
