Twice during his twenty-five years, Oliver had woken to find a woman sleeping in his bed.
Struck down with a fever on his eighth birthday, his mother had climbed on top of the coverlet and lay down next to him. With a gentle hand, she pressed cool linen to his brow and whispered words of comfort. It was a memory that stuck with him. One that often replayed over and over again in his dreams to soothe him. One that occasionally appeared in his nightmares to remind him that life could be cruel, too.
Consequently, he considered sleep an intimate affair, far too personal to share with just anyone.
He glanced down at the warm body hugging his side. Nicole was the only other woman ever to share his bed. Their legs were intertwined. One slender arm lay across his chest, her palm covering his heart. Vibrant red curls tumbled over her shoulder and across his pillow. With her lips but an inch from his neck, the soft rhythmical breath of deep sleep caused his stomach to perform a range of somersaults and flips.
But while his cock stood, hard and thick — fully recovered after many hours of pleasure — the feeling in his chest proved more distracting.
Never had he felt so calm, so sated, and so bloody famished all at the same time.
Never had he taken comfort from holding a woman close — or experienced the light skipping of his heart that occurred for no apparent reason at all. He wanted to punch a jubilant fist in the air. Wanted to think of nothing beyond this perfect, blissful moment.
But what the hell did it mean?
Usually, after bedding a woman, he was eager to leave, eager to place some distance between them. Sometimes an ocean wasn’t wide enough. So why was he still lying there, stroking Nicole’s hair, her upper arm, the soft curve of her hip?
Time apart would ease his craving, he told himself.
A crippling sense of helplessness sprung from nowhere at the thought of Nicole returning to Morton Manor. It was the right thing to do. Finding Rose had always been their goal. Hadn’t it?
The devil on his shoulder called him out as a fool. He hadn’t needed Nicole’s help at all. So why had he persuaded her to come? Why did he want to keep her at his side permanently?
His heart swelled just to torment him.
Where the bloody hell was Rose?
He focused his thoughts on his jutting erection, told himself it was lust that drove these cravings, not love. The passion they shared was intense. All-consuming. Under the circumstances, it was only natural to feel this way.
The temptress at his side stirred and pressed her naked body into his as she arched h
er back and stretched one arm above her head. A delicious hum left her lips. The sweet sound spoke to him, and he couldn’t resist a sidelong glance.
Damn. One glimpse of her bare breast and his body was aflame.
But to bed her again would be a mistake.
This obsession held him tight in its grip. He couldn’t shake it. Wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Truth be told, he could not get enough of the mysterious Miss Flint. But surely the rush of euphoria he felt when she spoke, smiled, brushed away a loose strand of hair, would fade eventually.
Best to put a stop to their amorous interludes.
Best to part as friends.
With renewed determination, Oliver slipped out of bed. For obvious reasons, he didn’t call his valet, choosing instead to dress quickly, quietly.
Once downstairs, he made for his study, dropped into the chair behind the desk and opened the dusty ledger. Work would clear his mind.
The numbers represented the income from tenants on his estate, Bridewell. Though written clearly in ink, he couldn’t quite grasp their meaning.
Bradbury knocked and entered. “Will you be taking your morning meal in here, my lord?”
It was rude not to wait for Nicole. But then she could well sleep for hours. “Yes. Just something light, Bradbury. Toast and eggs.” With all the rushing about the last few days, he’d lost his appetite.
“Very good, my lord.”
Ten minutes passed.
Bradbury returned with a silver tray. Oliver made room for it on the desk, took a bite of dry toast and a sip of coffee.