One Night Is Never Enough (20 page)

It was the simple truth. She had come, and he had found her.

His hands were around her neck, and their bodies were pressed together
everywhere
. She couldn’t remember feeling such a tight-wound thrill—it emanated from the very core of her.

“How did you do it?” she whispered.

“Do what?” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and worked one leg around to the front of the bench, locking them together fully so that she was
riding
his thigh.

“Get behind me,” she breathed.

“Mmmm . . . is that a request?”

She didn’t answer, unable to respond as the firm feel of his muscular thigh gripped between hers. But against her neck she felt his lips open into a smile.

“How do you know I wasn’t here before you? Waiting?” he asked, moving just the slightest bit so that she slid an inch farther down his thigh, pulling her slowly into place.

“You weren’t.” Her voice barely emerged.

“So you were daydreaming so intently that I managed to slip behind you? Why not simply slip up your skirts instead? Take you while you were thinking of other things.” His lips touched her ear, whispering, “Thinking of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you.” She tried not to think of his thigh, which was already up her skirts and burning her below.

She felt his smile again, tracing the curve of her neck, knowing her lie. “I will have to change that then.”

“Why do you care? Truly?” she whispered. Some men liked to collect beautiful things, she knew. And his personal space had spoken to a taste for the expensive, but he seemed particular in his acquisitions. Or perhaps she just
wished
such. Dangerous thoughts were ever present around this man.

“Let me ask you this instead, Charlotte—why did you come here? To this spot?”

“I was walking with Mir—”

Her breath caught as his hand trailed up one bent leg, beneath her dress, fingertips kneading the flesh of her thigh above the thin barrier of fabric that remained, so near to where her undergarments parted above him.

“Let’s try that question again with a more truthful response, shall we?”

“It is the truth.” She gripped his shoulders, staring over his shoulder, eyes unseeing, breath catching,
wanting.
“We were walking.”

He drew a pattern up her thigh, long, sloping curves of figure eights that had to brush his thigh as well. “I want you to admit it. Again. Knowing that we are on even ground.”

“Why?”

“So that we can begin in earnest. Without all these diversions, entertaining as they are.”

“Begin what?”

“Our torrid affair.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m not having a torrid affair with you.”

One finger slipped up, missing the curve of the eight, and brushed the slit in the fabric. She would have jolted had she had anywhere to go. As it was, the action simply pressed her to him and slightly up, and she felt the touch of a bare finger pad against her. Butterfly light and crashingly strong. She exhaled suddenly and lost the ability to inhale.

He, however, did not pause in his exploration. His roving hand continued the pattern of eight, but now with a higher curve, brushing intimately against her on every other curl. Her midsection tightened in waves, undulating as if he were a horse cantering beneath her.

The fingers of his left hand wove into the hair at her nape and tugged—not harshly, but not lightly either. “I assure you,” he whispered into her ear, still in full possession of the advantage even in their current position. “It will be
extremely
torrid.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her head tilted back to the stars, eyes closed. She wanted to be embraced by the shadows. To do something completely foolhardy and impetuous. Something that allowed her to fly.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t have an affair.”

“I assure you, it is quite simple.”

“I’m not married.”

“That makes it much easier, don’t you think? No witless husband getting in the way.”

“It’s not possible.”

“I assure you, it is quite possible. Or did you think Ganling’s daughter impregnated herself out of wedlock last season? And the Usters? Quick marriage there, no?”

She tried to push away, but he held her fast. “You give every reason not to indulge in such foolishness,” she said, a little bitterly.

He pulled her back down firmly upon his thigh, stilling her once more at the heated contact. “Foolishness is what gets those into that situation. I think I can safely keep you from that end. There are ways.”

His cheek drew along hers, his body dragged against hers, clasped to his as it again was. The fingers of one hand stroked the back of her neck and the other curved around her backside and drew down the side of her thigh. She didn’t know what was worse, the way he knew how to get a response from her or the way her traitorous body was rushing ahead to give it to him before he even asked. “Besides, the benefits will outweigh the risks, the gamble, I assure you.”

His hand, the lift of his hips, elevated her once again and pulled her fully against him, seated upon him. She felt the entirely male part of him reach toward her, pressing against her, making the feelings spike almost painfully. Awareness, panic, reckless excitement, fear.

“Tell me, Charlotte,” he whispered, his lips caressing her cheek, almost brushing hers, his eyes pinning her suddenly, even through the shadows. “Who are you thinking about
now
?”

She breathed heavily, eyes fiercely connected. Firm thoughts about any suitors or marriage plans and plots were nonexistent. Simply hazy mist in the hedges. He was offering her relief.

To sate these new, reckless urges.

Not something simple, though, no matter what his beguiling words promised. She didn’t think anything with him could be defined as such.

Who was she thinking about? For the past few weeks there had been only one person continuously on her mind.

“You.”

He hummed a little something, his fingers caressing her neck, his eyes not leaving hers. “You admit the most delicious things.”

“My lips tend to disobey when you are near,” she whispered, giving additional credence to the words.

“Mmmm . . . one of my favorite aspects, I’ll admit.” His other hand came up to touch her chin, then his thumb ran over her lower lip. “I noticed your lush mouth immediately. Hard not to with such a composed and opinionated opponent. The way your lips come together and part. You shield your eyes, but your emotions still show in the way you expel each succulent breath. And when you press your tongue against the roof of your mouth in anger, trying to keep the emotion from your face, the sides of your throat clench just so, making me wonder how you would look with your tongue wrapped tightly around me.”

Stunned and feeling emotionally drunk, she felt his thumb slowly pull across her lower lip, his bare finger running along it fully.

“I notice a lot of things that you probably wish I didn’t. But more than anything, I see the cage wrapped around you.” He closed the small gap, nose and lips brushing against hers, over and back again. “Why did you come here, Charlotte?” he asked once more.

“I read your note,” she whispered.

“And?”

She didn’t respond, pride not letting her.

“A man asking to meet you in the gardens, in the dark.” His lips brushed her cheek. “Wouldn’t that send a proper lady running the other way?”

“I wanted to come.” It was nearly yanked from her, like the coating of her pride.

He leaned back with a soothing shush on his lips as he traced hers with his thumb. “I know. I know. Let me set you free, Charlotte.”

She had no idea what “setting her free” would mean. But a wild yearning rose from the cavity inside her. A loosening of anxiety. Something that promised relief. Something about this man, about that night in his rooms, had cast a spell. A purely selfish desire to feel again the relaxation and relief that he directly inspired. That she could see
herself
as something more if she allowed him in.

All of which was utter nonsense, of course, the rational part of her mind scoffed. And she would firmly tell him so. After all, if there was a cage, she was the animal and he the hunter. Would she find the exit only to jump witlessly into his snare?

“Yes,” her lips whispered, betraying her again.

“Good.”

And every thought to the contrary fled as his mouth touched hers.

Consuming.

Something far darker and hotter than she had anticipated. It
burned.
From the inside out. Like a mythical bird erupting, destroying, and beginning anew. She fought against the consumption, pushing back, gripping his shoulders and kissing him back, wanting to force him to feel it too. And he was
pleased.
She didn’t have to see him to know it—
couldn’t
see him, as her eyes had closed on their own, more stars in the backs of her eyelids than could possibly exist in the sky.

She could
feel
his pleasure.

In the way his fingers alternated between almost gentle caresses and decidedly forceful possession. In the way he brought their bodies even closer together—a feat she hadn’t thought possible—rock hardness rubbing through their clothes. In the way he anticipated everywhere that she burned and his hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, soothed and inflamed more.

His lips trailed hungrily down her throat, her collarbone, her chest, catching the edge of a partially bared breast—her unconscious arch and their movements baring it farther.

She wanted to complete the need. The need that burned deep within her.

“Behind the bench is a lovely little spot where no one might spot us,” he said. She gasped as he unearthed the tip of her breast from beneath the fabric. “And, what is a torrid little affair without some grass stains?”

His low laugh and words, brought her head suddenly back up, and she saw his teeth catch the moonlight in a somewhat feral gesture. “Give the
ton
a right shock. Perfect Charlotte caught with her skirts above her head.” He nipped her skin at her jerking reaction to his words, his hand traveling south. “Perfectly delicious.”

The words unnerved her, and he knew it. She could read it in his face. He most often said things designed to make her melt, but occasionally, as his previous remarks served, he injected comments designed to put her on edge.

“The thought of simply overwhelming you here”—his fingers somehow worked beneath the layers as if the fabric had ceased to exist—“and giving you what you need”—the hand around the back of her neck forced her to meet his eyes, lips parted, as one finger dipped inside, slowly crooking, with her unable to look away, unable to breathe—“finally taking what I want”—he stroked her and she felt as if the humidity of summer had come early and was everywhere, inside and out—“is consuming.”

She felt consumed already. Whatever he was doing to her was making her body respond in sluggish, writhing ways.

He brushed something inside her, and she let out a strangled breath. And she could see everything in his heated ice blue eyes suddenly so close to hers. The satisfaction. The hunger. The possession. “Leave your window open tonight,” he whispered against her lips.

And his lips took hers, in an oddly gentle brush, a fleeting touch, before he whipped her around, her dress flying out into a circle. She found herself sitting alone on the bench, the stone warmer than it had been before, but still a shock to her system after being pressed against his heat. The embers still sparked.

She heard the footsteps only a second before Miranda and Downing rounded the corner.

She frantically reached for the bodice of her dress, but everything was in place. And Roman Merrick was nowhere to be seen.

A fiercely wild anger took hold of her as her body tried to gain back its cold equilibrium.

“Charlotte?”

“I am back here,” she called, thankful for the dark path and the shadows. Thankful for the cool calmness that she could use as a mask. That she could drape over her shoulders, over her emotions to stop them from consuming her. For the anger seemed to be directed against him for leaving her like this, and the thought terrified her that she might have preferred that he finish what he’d started, even with certain discovery.

“Oh, thank goodness. When you weren’t at the statue, I thought perhaps you had decided to leave us. Are you ready to return?”

She couldn’t see Miranda’s face yet, but she could hear the happiness in her voice, the gratitude that Charlotte had let them have a moment alone, the apology that they had caused her to feel the need to do so. Guilt joined the flurry of emotion within Charlotte, but she was already drowned in the frenzy.

An affair.

A relationship that wasn’t under the constant threat of a single night of payment. Nor just the teasing edge of fingers in the brush.