“Try.”
“I desire—” For a long moment, he thought she might not say anything, even as he hovered there, a hairsbreadth from where she wanted him. From where he wanted to be. And then she did speak, and in four words, she destroyed him. “I desire your pleasure.”
He pulled back, meeting her gaze at the words, seeing the truth there. He couldn’t find the words to speak.
She reached for him, lifting his face to hers. “Whatever you want, King. I want it, as well.” She pressed her lips to his, long and lingering, before lifting her head and saying, “Don’t you see? My pleasure is yours. I am yours.”
And that was it.
The kiss they shared then was nothing short of a claiming, wicked and full of promise. “You’re mine,” he said, as though her words had unlocked him, and perhaps they had. They’d certainly threatened his control. His desire. His need. “You’re mine,” he repeated, taking her mouth even as she took his. “You’re mine.”
“Yours,” she whispered as he released her lips and returned his attention to the core of her.
“You gave yourself to me,” he whispered, desperate for her.
Her fingers guided him to her. “I did,” she whispered. “I am yours.”
And then his mouth was on her, his tongue working at her, and he was pouring everything into the caress—desire and need and frustration and adoration and yes, anger. Anger that he couldn’t have her like this forever, here, open to him. Anger that he hadn’t met her years earlier. Anger that her love was not enough to heal him now.
He kissed her again and again, making wild love to her with his mouth, wanting to reward her for her honesty and punish her for it, as well—for the way she seemed to know that what he wanted was in concert with her own desire. For the way she used him.
For the way he loved it.
His tongue and fingers played over her and she cried out gloriously to the fountain and the labyrinth and the sun and the sky, first his name, and then a single word, again and again, like a litany and a weapon, at once blessing him and destroying him.
“Yours.”
His.
He gave her no purchase, remaining there at the throbbing, aching place where she wanted him most, making love to her until she came apart, crying her pleasure on that one word.
Yours.
He stayed with her until she returned to earth, to the labyrinth, Ariadne to his Minotaur, somehow able to destroy him with her touch.
Yours.
He would hear that word, spoken in her voice, for the rest of his life.
Yours.
Truth and utter lie all at once.
She couldn’t be his, of course. She couldn’t be his, because it would require him to be hers. It would require him to love her the way she deserved. And that would never happen. It was impossible.
He lifted his head to tell her so, finding her sleepy, sated smile above him, tempting him more than he could ever imagine. And then she spoke, shattering his intentions. “What of your pleasure?” she said, the soft words a blow as hard and harsh as anything he’d ever received in the boxing ring. A blow he’d never wanted so much in his life. “Don’t you wish to take it?”
He did, of course. Rather more desperately than he ever had. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
She deserved better.
“No,” he lied, working hard to keep his words calm and collected, hating himself for saying them. “I don’t.”
If she’d had all the money in Britain, Sophie would have wagered it on his laying her down and taking her there, at the base of the fountain, with only the Cumbria sky to witness it.
She would have lost the wager.
The disappointment that rioted through her was to be expected, of course. She’d been hoping he would agree to make love to her fully, and his refusal was no kind of positive experience. She’d found a magnificent pleasure in his arms, and she wanted more. She wanted to share it with him.
What she had not expected was the desolation. The sense that without him, she was alone in the world. That without his touch, without his companionship, she might not survive the day.
The sense that without him, she might not exist.
The thought terrified her.
She had not planned for this moment. Ever. She’d never planned to want someone so much, or to wish that her future entwined with his, or to wish to see his face every day, for the rest of time.
She’d planned to be happy, yes. To marry, to have a family, to live a quiet, peaceful life. But she’d never planned to want someone so much that his refusal actually pained her.
She’d never planned for a single, inaccessible path to be the only one she could imagine having.
She’d never planned to love.
Vaguely, it occurred to her that other people found love to be a pleasurable experience, filled with roses and doves and sweets and whatever else. Those people were obviously cabbageheads. Because she loved the Marquess of Eversley quite desperately, and there wasn’t anything remotely pleasurable about it.
She cleared her throat and straightened, pushing her skirts down her legs, trapping his hands beneath them for one excruciating moment as she tried to escape his touch. “I see.”
His fingers trailed along her ankle and she shot to her feet at the sensation, the touch breaking something inside her, making her at once wish to leap into the fountain to wash it from her and toss herself into his arms and beg him to continue. She did neither, thankfully, stepping away from him as though the events of the afternoon were perfectly ordinary. As though she weren’t rushing to protect herself from the pain he seemed to be able to exact without so much as a thought. “I see,” she said again, hating the repetition. Willing herself to remain silent.
She backed away from him. Why was he still kneeling on the ground? Why wasn’t he on his feet? Why was he still here?
Why hadn’t the statue of the Minotaur sprung to life and gobbled them both up?
He rose, spreading his hands wide and coming toward her. She put one hand up. Oh, dear. He on his feet was worse by far. “Sophie, let me explain.”
Dear God. The very last thing she wanted him to do was explain why he did not wish to make love to her. She backed away from him, eyeing the exit to the maze, beyond his shoulder.
And then he was close enough to block it from her view, forcing her to consider that shoulder in entirety. That broad, beautiful shoulder.
Enough, she admonished herself. Normal women do not care about gentlemen’s shoulders.
Normal women were in the wrong.
“Sophie, I won’t ruin you,” he said, approaching, giving her nowhere to go but backward.
“I see,” she said, fairly tripping over herself to get away from him. “I see.”
Good Lord. Could she say nothing else?
“I don’t think you do see,” he said. “You don’t see that you deserve more.” Her back came up against the hedge, prickly and uncomfortable and damn inconvenient. And still he drew closer. Close enough to raise his hand and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and make her quite desperate for him when he spoke, soft and lovely. “You don’t see that you deserve someone who will marry you.”
She closed her eyes at the words, as though if she couldn’t see him, he hadn’t said them. She’d known he wouldn’t marry her. She wasn’t a fool. But still, the words smarted.
He didn’t have to point it out. Did he?
“I see,” she said.
Apparently, that was all she would ever say again. Excellent. He’d turned her into an imbecile.
He swore roundly, making her wish that she’d been left with a fouler phrase than the one she seemed doomed to repeat for eternity. “Christ, Sophie. Stop saying that. You deserve someone who can love you.”
She had to leave this labyrinth. This estate. This man.
Now.
Before she said, “I see” one more time.
Or worse, before she couldn’t even say that anymore.