Please, yes.
He didn’t move. “Tell me your name.” She pulled back at the words, her eyes flying to his, and he watched her for a heartbeat.
Grace. She should say it. She was half certain that he already knew it. But if he did—would it be like this if he knew it? So simple? So easy?
She would have to end the game if she revealed herself. And she didn’t want to end it. Not now. Not when she was so close.
This was the most she would ever have of him.
This would have to be enough.
She reached for him, her hand curving around the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, tangling there. Drawing him close. Their eyes locked, and she whispered, “No,” a fraction of a second before she kissed him.
He froze as their lips touched, and for a moment she thought he would pull away. Don’t, she willed. Let me have this.
And then his hands came to her face, holding her still as his lips opened and he met her kiss with his own, and her world was collapsing around her—the night, the masque, and more than all that, the memory. The boy who had been her first kiss, fumbling and awkward and perfect . . . gone, and in his place, this man—strong and sure and perfect—and something whispered through her that was at once immensely powerful and utterly terrifying.
She didn’t stop to think about which was more important. She didn’t want to stop. She never wanted him to stop. A sound rumbled low in his throat as his thumbs traced the bottom edge of her mask, running under the structured silk, smoothing over her skin as he positioned her to take her lips more thoroughly.
And it was her turn to rumble, the pleasure of his kiss like nothing she’d ever experienced—it set her on fire. Grace came up on her toes, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled him closer, not thinking of the night, or the ball, or his plans for a wife or a life beyond her—thinking only of him, of them, of what they might have in this moment, with nothing else in the way.
Nothing but desire.
Offered and accepted.
He licked over her lips, the rough stroke of his tongue like a flame, and she gasped at the sensation, her eyes closing as she pulled away and he set his kiss to the line of her jaw, the column of her neck, the soft skin of her shoulder as he lifted her to sit on the edge of the gazebo, giving her no choice but to cling to him.
Not that she would have taken an alternate choice.
She had never wanted anything like she wanted this—pleasure and pain, desire and risk. A kiss that was at once the past and the present—even if it would never be future.
And a single thought, shattering through her: Mine.
There wasn’t room for that, of course. He wasn’t hers. He never would be. And she couldn’t face the idea that he might still be a part of her. This was it. One night. One fantasy. As promised.
And him never the wiser.
Ewan pulled back as though he’d heard the thought, and they both gasped for air. She clenched her fist in his hair and pulled him close again. Enough for him to growl his desperation into another lush kiss before he remembered he’d had something to say. Tearing his mouth from hers once again, he whispered, “Wait.”
“I’ve waited long enough.” A lifetime.
He gave a little huff of laughter. “Another moment won’t matter.”
Except it would. It was one less moment from this collection—from the only moments she would ever have.
“Tell me your name,” he said, before she could protest again.
“No.” He opened his mouth to protest at the instant refusal and she reached up, putting one gloved finger to his lips. “Shh. You promised me the fantasy, did you not?”
He looked pained. “I did.”
“You asked after my desires.”
“Yes—” he started, and she placed her finger to his lips once more.
“This is what I desire. This is the fantasy. No names.”
If he pressed, there would be memory. There would be the past. There would be Grace and Ewan. But tonight, there could be Dahlia and the duke, dark and mysterious and full of promises that could be kept in an evening, no lifetime required.
“You told me,” she continued. “Tonight is not for the future.”
She watched him, willing him to follow her lead, time stretching out like an eternity. And then he opened his mouth and took the tip of her finger between his lips, sucking gently and setting her on fire. Her jaw slackened as she watched the movement—betraying the lush strokes of his tongue against the sensitive pad of her finger. At her gasp of pleasure, he released her, the scrape of his teeth over her skin making her ache.
“No names,” he agreed, softly. “Then the mask stays, as well?”
She inclined her head at the question. Of course the mask stayed. Her rule did not stop him from reaching for his own mask and pulling it off, tossing it away, into the darkness, as though he had no intention of ever returning to his ball or his house or his life. Or, if he did, he had no intention of returning to those things in hiding.
She drank him in—unable to help herself now that he was finally bare to her—wishing beyond anything that she could see him clearly in the moonlight. To make up for it, she reached for him, her fingers sliding over his high, aristocratic cheekbones, testing the heat of his skin. He reached up and took her hand in his, pressing it to his cheek, as though he were an offering.
“Now I can see you,” she said.
“You could see me before; you only had to ask.” She marveled at the words, so free and without care. What would it be like to never have to hide? Grace was so expert at hiding, at playing a part—myriad parts—that she often forgot her truth.
Not that she could ever show it here.
He ran a hand through his hair, the dark blond hinting of gold in the moonlight. He leveled her with a look. “And so? Do you like it?”
So much. “You’ll do,” she allowed, giving herself up to the moment. “For tonight.”
He smiled, crooked and familiar for its boyish charm, and her chest tightened at the echo of memory that came with it. Not enough to chase her away. Just enough to make her wish never to leave.
He met her eyes. “What else, then, my lady? If I am to be your fantasy, where do I begin?”
Her heart began to pound, but she refused to be swayed. She lifted her chin. “Kiss me again.”
“Where?”
Everywhere. “Wherever you like.”
He growled, low in his throat, and then, “I like all of it.”
She reached for him, whispering in the darkness, “Then kiss all of it.”
They came together like a storm, crashing into each other as he tilted her chin up to the roof of the gazebo, exposing the long column of her neck and setting his lips to it, tracing it with his tongue. She sucked in a deep breath of pleasure, unbearably aware of his hands at her sides, caging her to the low wall of the gazebo, her own hands in his hair, half holding on, half guiding him down her neck and farther, over the skin rising up out of the low cut of the dress. And then one hand was there at her neckline, fisting on it, tightening the fabric before he ripped it, just enough to pull it away and release her breasts to the summer air.
It was mad and wild, and in only minutes reality would return and with it the truth about his actions and her anger and their irreparable past and their impossible future, but right now, there was this . . . mad and wild.
She sucked in a breath and he pulled back at the sound, to take her in. She skimmed her fingers over her collarbone, checking for the sleeves that still covered her shoulders before lowering her arms and letting him look his fill.
He did for long enough moments that she thought he might not touch her after all, and then he swore, dark and wicked, and for a heartbeat his perfect elocution slid into his past—into the Garden. The edge of slang sent heat pooling through her, a straight shot of desire, but she saw him hear his own words—words that dukes did not say with ladies, no matter how far down the garden path they were. The flinch was barely th
ere.
Would he stop?
Surely he wouldn’t. Not now.
Don’t stop.
“This . . .” he whispered, the words low and lush. “This is what I wanted. From the moment you arrived, I wanted to pull this dress off you.” His beautiful eyes, lit by the moonlight, met hers. “Tell me you wanted it, too.”
She straightened, pushing her shoulders back, presenting herself to his hot gaze. Putting herself on display. And then she whispered, “All of it.”
Another magnificent growl in his throat. “As my lady desires.” He set his lips to where she ached for him, lingering strokes with his tongue before taking her gently into his mouth and sucking, slow and rhythmic, until she was moving beneath him, meeting his lush draws with her body, whispering encouragement as he stole her thoughts.
And there, beneath the stars and the roof of that secret gazebo, Grace turned herself over to fantasy and to this man and to his magnificent mouth and hands—hands that were sliding beneath her skirts, over her ankles, and up the length of her leg, higher and higher, bringing the fabric with them, until the summer air was kissing her thighs with the same lush promise as he made to her breasts.
When he released her, she nearly cried her frustration, until he blew a long stream of air over the puckered tip of one breast, and looked to her again, his fingers playing over the soft skin of her inner thigh, painting patterns that robbed her of her sanity. “Where else shall I kiss you, my lady?”
She bit back a curse at the teasing words, even as she spread her thighs a touch wider. She was a woman who dealt in pleasure, and knew that she wished to take her own. Knew that there was only one man she’d ever want that pleasure from—even if she could never admit it. Even if he could never know it. She met his eyes, grateful for the mask—both the fabric one and the one that was more complicated to remove—and replied as Dahlia, who would not hesitate to take what she wanted. “Did you not say all of it?”
He swore softly at the words, leaning in to steal her lips in a kiss once more, before pulling back and saying, “Mmmm. I shan’t let you go until I taste all of it. Every inch of you.”
Without hesitation, he slid to his knees before her, taking her sense with him.
He spread her thighs, and she closed her eyes to his touch, wanting it more than she could say, her fingers tightening in his hair, his name whispering through her—the name she could never use—Ewan. When he pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the inside of her knee, the edge of his teeth scraping there like a promise, she exhaled, long and trembling. His breath was hot perfection, and he whispered, “I feel like Apollo in the woods.”
She opened her eyes at the words, staring up at the stars painted on the gazebo ceiling—another canopy that she’d never see without thinking of him. “A-Apollo?”
“Mmm.” He turned and pressed a lush kiss on the opposite thigh. “Apollo, wandering in the woods, until he stumbled upon the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”
Her surprised laugh turned into a gasp of pleasure as his lips moved higher and higher, closer and closer to where she wanted him. She held on to him, pulling tight at his hair, loving the grunt of pleasure-pain he offered even as she hated the way he lingered, close enough for her to feel his breath and too far away for her to feel anything else. “Was she naked in a swimming hole?”
He hummed his amusement, and she heard the distraction in the sound, as though he was too focused on something else. On her. On the place where she, too, was focused. “I shall tell you later.”
He set his lips to the hot, straining core of her, and she cried out at the sensation—unable to stop herself from staring down at him. She was pure desire. Unleashed need.
And Ewan, controlling it, as he always had.
He licked long and firm over her, setting her on fire before lifting his mouth and moving back, pushing her skirts higher, tilting her hips forward to give himself a view. “You’re so wet,” he growled, dipping a single finger inside her.
She sighed, rocking toward him, eager for more of him—touch, words, gaze, whatever he would spare. Later she would hate herself for wanting him so much. But now, she gave herself up to him.
“You shine like gold here. The moonlight loves you.”
Her fingers tugged at his hair again. “I’m more interested in you loving me, right now.”
A pause, and Grace bit her tongue. He would understand she meant—
“As my lady wishes.”
He understood.
Her fingers slid into his hair, clutching him close, pressing him to the open, aching center of her, using him as he tasted her again and again, losing himself in her. He licked and sucked and stroked with tongue and fingers until she rocked against him, her breath coming faster and faster, her hips working to find the rhythm that would give her release.
“Yes.” He growled against her as she tightened her fist, pulling his hair tight. “Show me.”
She did, taking her pleasure without shame. Knowing he took his, too. Knowing that this night would be all they ever had.
Knowing it was a mistake.
His tongue found a glorious spot, and she cried out, the sound giving him all the information he needed. He worked at that spot in rough, rhythmic circles, his tongue like a promise, over and over, her grip guiding him as she moved against him, seeking her pleasure.
He pulled back to stare up at her, his gaze hot on her, framed by the torn fabric of her bodice. She groaned her frustration, her hips tilting toward him, and he rewarded the movement with a slow, delicious suck where she wanted him. “You are a queen,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes at the words. At the impossible promise in them.
And then he added, “Tonight, I am your throne.” The words crashed through her, leaving a trail of desire. Her eyes opened, and her gaze crashed into his as he said, “What do you need?”
This was what she needed.
He was what she needed.
Tonight.
Not forever.
Just tonight.
Perhaps it would be enough.
She tightened her fist in his hair and pressed herself to him, loving the way his eyes closed with pleasure, loving the feel of him there, stroking . . .
“This,” she whispered. “I need this.” A delicious growl vibrated through her. “This,” she repeated. “I need—”
You.
Miraculously, she didn’t say it.
And still, it seemed he might have heard it.
He growled, his tongue stroking hard, in circles, firmer and tighter until he was working the place where she was desperate for him, and she was on her toes and she was shaking with pleasure.
She flew apart, hands in his hair, whispered words as wild as the sounds he made, pure sin at her core. He stayed there, on his knees, against her, gentle and firm, until she released the long breath she’d held at the end, her grip relaxing from his hair.
He caught her as she lost herself, coming to his feet and fitting himself between her legs, holding one knee in a strong hand as he stroked over her cheek with the other, pulling her to him for a slow, deep kiss. He rocked against her pulsing core, the hard ridge of him a delicious pressure, one she could not resist meeting with writhing movement.
He released her mouth, pulling back from the kiss, setting his forehead to hers, the silk of her mask between them as he panted, “Tell me your name.”
Grace.
She bit back the word. The revelation. Shook her head.
He rocked against her again, sending another jolt of pleasure through her—almost too much. “Tell me,” he growled in her ear.
Too much.
She opened her eyes, finding him a hairsbreadth away. And there, in his gaze, she saw it.
Longing.
It was gone almost before it appeared, but she saw it. Recognized it.
“Please,” he said, reaching out to push a loose curl from her cheek. And with that touch—with his hands on her disguise, the fantasy was over.
Did he know? The thought sent a shot of fear through her, and she stiffened, pushing him away.
He stepped back, instantly. “Wait.”
She did not respond, coming off the wall and shaking out her skirts and wrapping the silken wrap over the tear in her bodice. Straightening. Stiffening.
Returning to reality.
He saw the change in her. He cursed his frustration in the darkness.
She lifted her eyes to his, loving and hating the way he stared at her—as though there was nothing in the world he’d rather look at.
“Let me see you again.” There was frenzy in the words. Something held tight that threatened to come unmoored.
Never. If they saw each other again, if he touched her again—she risked everything. She could never come here again. This was the end.
Grace took a deep breath, and Dahlia replied.
“No.”
Chapter Eleven
Burghsey Estate
Twenty Years Earlier
“What have you done?”
Grace’s words came like gunshot from the other side of the room, shock and betrayal in her eyes, as she crouched over his brother, curled in a ball on the floor, his arms wrapped around his midsection.
Ewan had broken a rib. More than one. He’d felt the bones crack beneath his knuckles. Of course he had. He was inches taller than Whit, and a better fighter by far than the other boy, the runt of the litter, according to their father.
Their father, the monster.
Size didn’t make him better than Whit, though. It had been Whit who had stepped up to fight Ewan, knowing before everyone else what the monster had planned. Knowing, before everyone else, that Ewan would be the duke’s weapon in the end.
And Ewan had proven him right, putting him to the ground—leaving him broken and bleeding, tears on his face. Tears on his face, and on hers, too, but Ewan couldn’t look at hers, knowing that when he did, he would feel all the things he could not afford to feel.
Every moment the girl lives, you’re one whisper from the gallows.
His father’s words, spoken moments earlier, in the hallway beyond, as he’d pressed the knife into Ewan’s palm, a perverted knighthood. Not Ewan any longer. Now Robert. Robert Matthew Carrick, Earl Sumner, heir to the Dukedom of Marwick.
Daring and the Duke EPB Page 11