Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

e sucked in a breath. "Why have you allowed me to?"

"Give me an honest answer and I promise to reciprocate."

Beneath his soothing touch, her arms felt warm, the heat spreading rapidly through her body. With him standing in such close proximity, she struggled to focus. And the pulsing sensation beat its seductive rhythm at the apex of her thighs.

He smiled. "Perhaps I enjoy playing knight-errant to a damsel in distress."

"Is that all?" The hint of disappointment in her tone was unmistakable. "Is that the only reason?"

"I like you, Grace. More than you want me to. More than I care to admit."

"How do you know what I want?"

He shrugged. "You don't want me to kiss you. That much I do know."

Oh, he was wrong.

She'd thought of nothing else all day, dreamt of nothing else all night. Amidst the noise and bustle of the ballroom, she had wanted so desperately to be held in his arms. Would it feel as comforting as she imagined? But fear, like a devil on her shoulder, whispered its evil words. What if he became too rough? What if she wanted him to stop and he refused to listen?

Henry's twisted grin flashed into her mind. Were those cold eyes and callous lips to haunt her forever?

"Kiss me if you wish to," she suddenly said, hoping the touch of an angel would banish the Devil.

He removed his hat, placed it on the table and brushed his hands through his ebony locks. "Do you want me to kiss you, Grace?"

"Yes." Each breath came more quickly as he scanned her face, moistened his lips. "Be gentle with me," she said. "Don't rush me."

He brushed her hair from her cheek, cupped her face in his hands. "I won't hurt you. I would never want you to do anything that made you feel uncomfortable."

Grace almost jumped into his arms, almost let the tears fall. Instead, she took the last step until the front of her dress brushed against his coat.

He lowered his head, and she held her breath as his lips touched hers, so softly, so gently. The sensitive skin tingled as he brushed against her mouth, moving to rain faint kisses on her chin and along her jaw until she felt hot and dizzy.

The seductive smell of sandalwood swamped her, and she wondered if his skin tasted as divine. When he kissed her neck, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

"Elliot." The word left her lips between ragged breaths.

"Oh, God. Grace I … I…"

She felt the sudden shift in him — his muscles growing harder, his breathing huskier. He brushed her lips again, firmer this time, his tongue penetrating her mouth with an urgency that shocked her.

A burning need emanated from him, the air about them thrumming with uncontrollable passion. All the wonderful feelings abandoned her as he crushed her to his chest. Panic took hold. And she struggled and writhed against him.

"No … let … let me go." She put her palms on his chest and pushed away from him.

"What's wrong?" He looked so tortured, so damnably handsome and confused.

Feelings of shame and mortification overpowered all else. What sort of woman struggled to kiss a man? Perhaps Henry was right. She was cold-hearted, unresponsive, lacked passion. When she thought of all the women eager to seduce Lord Markham, she felt so incapable, so inadequate.

"I'll meet you in the hall," she said darting past him as she choked back a sob. But old habits drew her upstairs, and she ran into the room she'd slept in since her arrival, desperate to lock the door, desperate to lock him out.

He raced behind her, chasing her and she thought her heart would give way from the strain. When he caught her by the arm, she turned and screamed. "Please, Henry, don't."

"Grace. It is me. It's Elliot."

He pulled her into his arms as she tried to fight him.

"You're safe," he whispered, stroking her hair and holding her tight. "You're safe, Grace. It's Elliot. Henry is dead."