No Ordinary Gentleman

“How about you use your mouth for something other than talking,” I snarl as my grip tightens on his neck, a ferocity sweeping through me.

His lips press to the juncture of my neck and shoulder as, with a pained sounding groan, he rolls his pelvis against me.

“If you don’t want me to talk, maybe you should just sit on my face.” His seductive tone curls around my ear, the base suggestion blooming and bursting inside.

That is—hot. And nasty. And oh, God, how I want it. I want it all. Want what I shouldn’t. Want what I’ll take anyway.

“Screw you,” I rasp, my hand sliding from his neck to his hair. Tightening there.

“Oh, darling, you have,” he purrs. “My God, you have.”

Then he kisses me, cutting off my response I might have. He kisses me like my participation isn’t required nor deserved. My knees give way, but that doesn’t matter as he grips my ass, dragging me against him as though he’d fuck me right here in the hallway.

“Tell me you forgive me,” he demands, sucking at my throat, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. Bruises I want. Fierceness I demand. But as his mouth gentles, his hands cupping my elbows, I realise he’s pulling back.

“No,” I gasp, my fingers tightening, my need shimmering.

“I want.” His words are a hoarse whisper. “I need—say it.”

“I don’t forgive you,” I rasp, pulling him against me, refusing to be seduced by his brutal beauty. By the lush temptation of his mouth. “Not for tonight.”

“Then forgive me for the things I’m about to do to you.”

His words aren’t soft, and they crash through me like a thunderbolt. Though nothing else makes sense, I know with absolute certainty that I want him. Just one more time, I tell myself. And like regrets, I’ll leave the thoughts of consequences for tomorrow.

25

Holly

Our footsteps are muffled by a carpet of deep reds and indigo, worn and threadbare in parts thanks to generations of use. How many dukes of Dalforth had walked these halls, dragging behind them some unsuitable woman he wanted to fuck?

That’s unfair, I think to myself. He would’ve put aside his want for you.

You’re the instigator of this—you put yourself in the driving seat.

When we don’t turn towards the service stairs, I tug a little on his hand, even as I realise why: between the dining room and service stairs will be a hive of activity. I’m sure there’s no need to give them anything else to gossip about. The same goes for the guests in the parlour whose voices we can hear as we turn the corner.

“Do we have to?” My eyes seek Alexanders. “I mean, pass by there?”

“Unfortunately. It’s there or the back stairs.” His expression when he glances down at me is less like a smile and more like a mockery of one.

Okay, I know I asked for this—but I didn’t ask for this. An outing. The walk of shame in reverse. “Are we going to make a run for it?”

“No need. Judge it right, and we’ll pass and be up the stairs before anyone realises.”

“Skulking in your own castle, your grace,” I find myself playfully replying. He smiles down at me, and something inside me unfurls. “I do—” forgive you, I almost say. I forgive you because I understand desire makes us do crazy things. But as his hand tightens on mine, my declaration goes unfinished, my feet beginning to slow along with his.

Then I hear. A door creaking open up ahead. Voices shortly following.

I don’t have time to panic as Alexander moves, and as quick as a flash, we’re tumbling into a room. Except tumbling would imply we made some noise. But it’s hard to make a sound, pressed between a castle wall and a wall of Alexander.

“You left—” Alexander’s forefinger presses to my mouth, my whisper going unfinished. The door open.

No time, his shrug seems to say.

Muffled footsteps meander along the hallway, a deep chuckle ringing out. In the reflection of the darkened window, I see them appear in the hallway before they turn, their backs now facing the open door. I guess they’re admiring the paintings hanging on the wall.

I cast my eyes around the room, looking for someplace to hide, just in case they decide to explore the artwork in here. I’ve been in here before; this is one of the rooms dressed for public view. Brass stanchions cordon off part of the room, claret-coloured velvet rope swagged between them. The tourists don’t enter from the hallway we were just in, but the door next to the marble fireplace that leads out to the other side of the building.

“. . . combined with the collective sense of the sublime,” a masculine voice in the hallway recounts.

“Is it?” replies a nasally voice. One of the film’s money men, as far as I can tell. Not that I spoke to everyone at the dinner table, but his accent is American, and the money men weren’t at all interested in me. I guess they mustn’t have seen me juggling haggis bonbons earlier. “I can’t say I like it,” he continues. “It’s kind of depressing. Gloomy. I mean, couldn’t she have cracked a smile?”