No Ordinary Gentleman
But maybe I’m just a terrible person with has poor impulse control and no morals, and an unhealthy sideline in self-sabotage.
A terrible, terrible person.
I wrap my arm around the post at the bottom of my bed and press my head against the warm wood. Though not for long because the post is carved and not too comfortable. Alexander Dalforth will be the death of me, I’m sure. Just the thought of his name and, urgh!
I jump to my feet and straighten the counterpane, absolutely ignoring how just thinking of him makes my insides begin to pulse and my pulse race. And my head? Don’t even go there.
And that’s just from thinking his name—nothing else! Not how he has a neck that makes me feel like a vampire, or how my hands react to his chest like metal to a magnet. And don’t get me started on the man’s aural game or the way he insisted he wouldn’t—that. Not until I was sure of him.
Sure of what?
Sure he’s driving me crazy?
I ask you, what kind of sadist withholds the D?
Though, honestly, that’s not really a valid complaint. More of an observation that I made much later because, at the time, I didn’t have enough brain cells to raise a smile, let alone raise an opinion.
I shuffle over to the window to distract myself. I’ve an hour to kill before I need to step outside of this room for the school run.
Green. Blue. Gold.
Summer has arrived in Scotland this morning with a very poor sense of timing. If there was justice in this world, it would be raining because my ordeal continues. Because Alexander, the duke who could teach the men of the world a thing or two about oral sex as a whole meal as opposed to a prelude, is not leaving today.
Not. Leaving. Today.
As in, he’s not getting in his car and driving to the airport. He’s not going back to London as I’d thought—as I’d expected when I’d climbed onto his knee last night. As I’d begged him to take me to bed. As I’d silently promised myself this would be the last time. It hadn’t even been awkward as I’d come down from my orgasm high to find myself curled against him as his hand moved over my back reassuringly. As he’d crooned such words to me.
How beautiful I was.
How there was no one else like me.
How there was pleasure itself in seeing me come.
I’d felt so warm and so happy and blissed out to the maximum as he’d helped me on with my panties and jeans, then held out my shirt, allowing me to slip into it so easily. He’d poured me a glass of water, passed me my shoes, then held my hand as we’d made our way out of the kitchen and all the way up the stairs.
Maybe it wasn’t awkward because I wasn’t there. Not really. Maybe I was on some other plane, not ready to come back to earth from my orgasm. Whatever the reason, the steady stream of conversation he’d kept up seemed to help the zero awkwardness factor. And when we’d reached my bedroom door, he’d pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“This is where I leave you,” he’d murmured. “I’m afraid I might have to go and take care of some very urgent business.” When he’d winked, my gaze had dropped to his crotch with a giggle, like it was an invitation.
“I think I’ve been naked in more places in this house than I’ve been clothed,” I’d quipped. Because what else could I say? Want me to take a look at it? I’d already offered, and he, for whatever reason, had declined. “Which is weird because I’m not even a bikini at the beach kind of girl.”
“That statement is so sad, it almost brings tears to my eyes.”
“Well, flattery gets you a naked girl, I guess.” I’d shrugged, embarrassed, thrilled, and sad for reasons I couldn’t even contemplate.
“What, do you suppose, gets me her trust?” He’d passed me the glass of water, his retracting hand finding my hip. He’d seemed to wait for an answer as his thumb had moved almost hypnotically over my hipbone. Heat began pooling at my centre all over again. But I didn’t have an answer for him, so we’d just stared at each other, and his hand hadn’t moved. Not for a long while. “Goodnight, Holland,” he’d said eventually. “Sleep well.”
“Safe journey tomorrow,” I’d whispered, stepping over the threshold while ignoring how hollow I’d felt.
He’d sort of shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How could you think I’d be able to leave you now?”
Which leaves me here. In Kilblair Castle. With the duke I’d very much like to f—
Or, in other words, up the creek without a paddle.
Because he might want me, sure. But I’d end up going the way of Portia. A stage five clinger who’ll suffer through any manner of embarrassment just to be seen with him. Maybe he’s still in love with his wife. Maybe this is all he’s capable of.