What is that like?!
Have you met the Queen?!
And he didn’t want the rest either. The sudden sizing up, the reassessment. The knowledge that every opinion she formed of him after the revelation of his title would be clouded by the title itself.
The unavoidable, malicious whisper: She doesn’t see you. She only sees the duke.
Worse: She doesn’t want you. She only wants the duke.
And then: She doesn’t love you. She only loves the duke.
Her brows rose as the silence stretched between them. “Max?”
No harm in one night.
“I was born here.”
She nodded and returned her attention to the road, visible in the bright light of the moon. “And you still live here, with people who care about you.”
“For people who care about me, they certainly enjoy taking the piss.”
She laughed at that, the sound lovely and rich. “I think that’s how you know they care about you.”
“It is, honestly.”
Lilah watched him for a moment and then said, “That sounds like you have proof.”
In his darkest moments, as his marriage disintegrated before God and tabloids, it had been those men who’d smacked him surely on the back and bought him pints and let him privately grouse to them. And during those moments, Max had been certain they’d remain private. After all, he wasn’t ever going to talk about them.
So he would never know what made him respond, “Let’s just say that when your marriage falls apart, you could do much worse than those four.”
She didn’t hesitate, her footsteps sure as they turned off the road and onto the long drive to the main house. If only Max could take the moment in such stride. In the nine years since its demise, he’d never once spoken of his marriage. To anyone. Not even the men down the pub.
Until this freckle-faced, doe-eyed, red-shoed darts shark had appeared.
Silence stretched between them, and it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. She nodded. “I’m happy you had them, then.”
No questions. Just honesty.
She sighed and looked up at the stars, clear and bright against the night sky. “You could do worse than them, and you could do worse than here.”
The words were kind and light, but there, in the tail end of them, Max heard it. Wistfulness. Sadness. Nostalgia. Something else. Something he couldn’t name but somehow understood, because it was familiar.
Someone had disappointed her too.
She’s going to steer well clear of you—with what they say happened. Lottie’s words.
He should leave well enough alone. He shouldn’t push. Everyone had secrets. God knew he did. And yet, “What about you, Lilah Rose?”
She slid a surprised look at his use of her last name. “Checking up on me?”
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t planning to rob the place.”
“The oil paintings are safe.” She laughed. “I won’t have the wall space when I get back to New York.” A pause, and then she added, “Come to think of it, I won’t have walls when I get back to New York.”
Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing it wasn’t fair play to ask her for secrets when he wasn’t sharing his own—he grasped the string and pulled. “Why not?”
She lifted a shoulder in a little shrug that revealed more than she realized. “I sold my studio space eighteen months ago.”
“For what, backpacking across Europe?”
“Around the world, actually. This is my last stop. Ten more days.”
“What’s in ten days?”
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of her footsteps as they walked, the steady crunch of her worn red Converse trainers on the graveled path. “I return to the real world.”
“What does that look like?”
She shook her head and looked at him, and there it was again, the sadness. The uncertainty. Max clenched his fists in his pockets, resisting the impulse to pull her close and wrap his arms around her. To keep whatever demons haunted her at bay. If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into Lancelot. Pledge her his sword.
And everyone knew what happened to Lancelot. He didn’t get the girl. In fact, he was her downfall.
She looked to the main house, windows lit in the darkness. “Does it have a folly?”
The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to follow it. “It does.”
Lilah smiled. “Two years ago, I shot Henrietta Wolfe, Vivienne Darby and Margot McKennett at a folly at Highley Manor.”
Lottie had said Lilah was an artist, but photographing a trio of Shakespearean actors, each well into their eighties, each made a Dame by the Queen, who were collectively considered Britain’s greatest treasure . . . Max couldn’t help being impressed. “What was that like?”
Her voice filled with wonder. “Unbelievable. I’ve taken pictures of some amazing things, but those three? They’ve lived hundreds of lives in their work, and you can see it in every line of their faces . . . ” She trailed off for a moment before she said, “The camera—it loved them.”
Max could see her pleasure. Hear her breathless excitement. And he knew, without question, that she had loved that day.
She doesn’t do celebrities anymore. His sister’s words from earlier in the evening.
Why not? “What happened to the pictures?”
Like that, Lilah closed up. He’d said something wrong. “They were never run.”
Sadness again. Loss?
Why?
He didn’t ask. Maybe because he knew she wouldn’t answer. Maybe because he knew that if she did, he wouldn’t like what it revealed.
She filled the silence. “Anyway—before that shoot, I didn’t know follies were a thing. I mean, who could imagine that people would build entire buildings for no purpose whatsoever?”
“Not for no purpose . . . they served a very clear purpose of showcasing the aristocratic love of excess.”
“I never think of the English as being overtly excessive.” She paused. “Estate houses aside.”
He gave her a little smile. “Oh, never overt. That’s the point. The folly here, which right now serves absolutely no purpose whatsoever, looks exceedingly useful.”
“Useful in the sense of . . . ”
He put on his best ducal accent, the one perfected during years of schooling. “How else are we to guard the northern border?”
She laughed and turned toward him, walking backward up the drive, the moonlight gleaming on her mahogany curls. “Back to marauders, are we?”
He watched her, riveted to her pretty, open face. Wanting to do more than watch it. “I thought we agreed that it was sheep.”
She slowed, the laugh trailing off as his words echoed the moment in the pub, when he’d leaned in close and whispered in her ear, the scent of her wrapping around him like sun-drenched linen. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to resist pressing his lips to the soft, warm skin of her neck.
Soft, warm skin that tempted him even now, from beneath the collar of her sweater.
“Right,” she said, softly, stopping altogether, turning her body toward him, and he would have given his whole fortune to know what she was thinking.
Enormous brown eyes, hooded. Full lips, parted.
He didn’t need the fortune to know what she was thinking.
Lilah Rose wanted him.
And she wanted him. Not the Duke of Weston. Not Rupert Arden. Not St. Andrews or the Mayfair townhouse or the massive estate.
She wanted Max.
Christ, she was perfect here in the darkness, the crisp autumn air whispering through the trees, the night sky like a blanket, the universe closing around them.
He pulled his hands from his pockets, slowly, not wanting to ruin it. Not wanting her to think he’d only walked her home for this. To touch her. To kiss her.
It was true, that. He liked her. He hadn’t wanted to say goodnight. Not yet.
And he wanted to kiss her.
B
ut a gentleman wouldn’t—
And then her fingers were on the bare skin of his forearm, stroking over the hair there, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, down his arm, over the back of his hand, until they laced into his for a heartbeat, just enough to make him wonder what she would do if he tightened his grip on hers and pulled her close.
Just enough to make him wonder how well she’d fit against his chest.
What she would taste like.
How quickly he could make her sigh with pleasure.
“Will you take me there?”
He’d take her wherever she wished.
No. That wasn’t what she was asking.
The folly.
“Now?”
She smiled, and her touch slid away. “No. In daylight. But I imagine it’s beautiful at night under the stars.”
You’re beautiful at night under the stars. “I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you.” The words were soft and perfect, and they made Max want to give her everything she could ever want, just so he could hear her say them again. He wanted to lay her down in his bed and pleasure her until she was sighing them into his ear.
He cleared his throat at the thought and waved a hand in the direction of a turnoff from the main drive. “You’re up here.”
She looked off to where the light from the cottage shone through the trees, then back to him. “Where are you?”
He waved a hand in the direction of the estate house. “Other direction.”
Not a lie.
Not the truth, neither.
Lilah looked back up the path toward the cottage, and he heard the breath hitch in her throat, as though she wanted to say something but wasn’t quite sure what it was.
He would have waited there all night to hear it.
Finally, she looked back at him, her brown eyes gone black in the darkness. “Tell me something, Max . . . ”
Anything she wanted.
“ . . . are there sheep between here and there?”
“Could be,” he said, his heart pounding, awareness thrumming through him. He wasn’t young and he wasn’t a fool. He knew what she was asking. “Shall I walk you the rest of the way?”
She led the way, through the darkness, beneath the ancient trees that had witnessed any number of lovers headed for that particular cottage in the dead of night over the last three hundred years.
When they reached the cottage, Lilah turned to watch him for a moment, and Max couldn’t shake the idea that she was searching for something. Truth? Trust?
Whatever it was, she found it, and her fingers were back, sliding over his, threading through them. Her face tilted up to the moonlight. To him.
“Come inside.” Not a request. Command. Pure temptation. Easy to follow.
It was his turn to touch her, to reach for her, his fingers stroking down the side of her face, along her jaw and down the column of her neck. She shivered, leaning into the heat of his hand, bringing one of hers up to hold him close.
His grip tightened, and she pressed herself to him—tight enough that he could close the distance between them without trying. Settle his lips on hers and steal her kiss.
He growled deep in his throat, frustration humming through him. “I can’t.”
“You can, though.”
“The pub,” he whispered, setting his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “The drinks.”
“Two pints. Three hours. I’m not drunk, Max.”
She stepped closer to him, her free hand coming to his chest, warm and firm like a promise. His fingers flexed. He’d never wanted anything the way he wanted her. But he was trying to do the right thing.
“It’s sweet you think you’d be taking advantage of me,” she said, softly.
“I would,” he said, matching her tone, leaning down and inhaling at the place where her neck met her shoulder, breathing her in as her fingers slid into his hair and tightened, holding him there. “I’m already taking advantage of you.”
I’m taking advantage of the fact that you don’t know who I am. That you don’t treat me the way every other woman I’ve ever known has.
His lips brushed the soft skin of her shoulder, warm beneath the collar of her sweater, and she caught her breath.
“Don’t stop,” she commanded, pressing him closer, and he responded, his tongue circling against that magnificent, smooth skin, just once.
They both groaned at the sensation.
“Or maybe it’s you, taking advantage of me,” he spoke to her neck, his lips sliding along the column, over her jaw, to her ear.
Lilah’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, and he lifted his head at the delicious sting, looking to her. She smiled, and it took all of his willpower not to give in. Not to take what he wanted. “I would really enjoy taking advantage of you.”
And then she leaned up and kissed him, and he knew he shouldn’t, but he let her, groaning into the caress, his fingers tightening on her waist, pulling her closer—was he pulling her? Not really. She was coming for him, fingers sliding in his hair, body pressed against his, all soft curves and perfection, and her mouth—pure, lush, beautiful sin.
She sighed into his mouth, and they took advantage of each other, just for a moment.
Just long enough for Max to slide his tongue against hers, just for a taste. Just long enough for him to know what he would miss when he remembered that he shouldn’t be kissing her right now. Just to know her sweetness, so later he’d know what he missed when he lay in his own bed in his own house and stroked his cock and imagined her with him.
She tasted like spring.
But he wasn’t the only one tasting—Lilah was stretching up to him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her own tongue meeting his. Exploring him as she pressed against him, her warm body fitting against him as she ended the kiss and whispered, “You taste like autumn.”
He went instantly hard and pulled her tight to him with a growl, his hands falling to her ass and lifting her against him, her legs wrapping around his hips as he set her back to the closed door of the cottage with a thud that somehow set them both free.
She exhaled on a low, delighted laugh and looked up at him through her lashes—a lethal combination that sent a straight shot of pleasure through him. “So strong,” she whispered, her hands stroking over his shoulders and down his arms, testing the muscles that strained there.
“I could hold you here forever,” he said, setting his lips to her neck, her jaw, her cheek, and then kissing her again, meeting her tongue as it darted into his mouth and giving it a long suck, until a little cry sounded in her throat, and she rocked her hips against his, her core hot and perfect and too fucking far away, separated from him by layers of clothing.
He groaned as she increased the pressure there, where he wanted her beyond reason, and they kissed again, heavy and intense. She was like flame in his arms, hot and perfect, and sexy as hell, and the kiss went on and on, rioting through him until time disappeared, and place, and him—leaving nothing but Lilah.
“I could be held here, forever,” she whispered, breaking the kiss, looking him straight in the eye. “Max . . . ” His name came like a siren’s call, punctuated by another slow rock against him.
Christ, she felt good. This felt good. Better than anything he’d ever experienced, and he gripped her tighter, pressing into her more firmly, one hand sliding into her thick curls, holding her still as he rocked against her, once. Twice.
She sighed. “Please, Max. One night.”
One night.
Temptation incarnate. And what if he gave himself up to it? He’d thought it himself, earlier. One night. One night with her, and without the rest of the world. Max met her eyes, dark pools, heavy-lidded with want. He understood that too. He wanted her just as much. More. When was the last time he’d wanted something so much?
No harm in one night.
Except he knew now, even before he’d had her, that he wouldn’t be able to stop at one night. He’d need more for what he wanted
to do to her. For how he wanted to consume her.
For the look in her eyes, like she had delicious plans herself.
One night would never be enough.
Max lowered her to the ground in a slow slide that had him gritting his teeth from the pleasure of her body against his, of her indulgent, wicked smile, of her decadent sigh, of the throbbing ache of his cock.
And he lied.
“One night.”
Chapter Five
It was a mistake, of course. Lilah knew it even as she pulled Max through the ancient oak door into the entryway of the cottage. She was going to London and then to New York and she absolutely did not need the complication of a hot British farmer, who was way too perfect for a one-night stand.
Or a one-week stand, for that matter.
This was the kind of man who made you want to stay.
But that was a problem for future Lilah. Present Lilah didn’t have any problems at all.
She toed off her shoes as Max kicked the door closed behind them and reached for her with a growl, one arm sliding around her waist and pulling her to him.
She wrapped her own arms around his neck as he lifted her again, and she let out a little squeal. There was no three-hundred-year-old wall behind her this time, and Lilah wasn’t exactly pixie-sized, but he carried her like she weighed nothing, and he wasn’t even winded.
She threaded her fingers into his hair and wrapped her legs around his waist. “So much for the gentleman, huh?”
“Turns out I’m the marauder.”
Pleasure coursed through her, pooling deep. “What will you do with me?”
One hand slid up her back, large and warm and firm, and he said, low and dark, “I have some ideas.”
“Me too,” she whispered, leaning down, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Should we see if they match?”
He groaned, his fingers sliding into her hair, pulling her down as he took her kiss, hot and lush, licking over her lips in a rough stroke that set her on fire. How was it that this man kissed like this? How was it that he tasted like wheat and smoke and sun and rain? How was it that he made her feel like she might spend the rest of her life searching for another kiss like this one—addictive and perfect?
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 4