He was devastatingly seductive in the way he talked to her, in the way he watched her, eyes narrow, hands stroking in time to her rhythm—a rhythm that quickly brought them both to the edge. She couldn’t stop the words from coming again, even as she knew she shouldn’t speak them. “I love you,” she whispered, looking down at him, feeling euphoric and royal and like she’d never felt before.
Feeling like she was finally, finally correct.
Even as she did the least correct thing she’d ever done in her life.
He was moving beneath her then, plunging up as she came down around him, loving the feel of him against her, beneath her, inside her . . . rocking hard and fast against him as he returned his fingers to that place between her thighs, where he seemed to know just how to touch her, how to claim her, how to destroy her. His thumb moved in quick, firm circles as she chased her pleasure—and his. “That’s it, love . . . take it for yourself . . . take it for me.”
“I want it,” she said, the honest desire hot and unbridled. “I want it for you.”
“I know.” He leaned up, sucked the peak of one breast into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and the sensation was all she could take—surprise and passion crashed over her, and she fell apart in his arms, her body trembling with the intensity of the moment. She put her hands to his shoulders, her eyes locked with his, blue against grey.
“I love you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her again.
The confession seemed to unlock the last vestige of his control—he clasped her hips to his, thrusting and arcing against her, taking her mind and body once more in a storm of passion. “Pippa,” he cried out, and the sound of her name hot and ragged on his lips was enough to send her over the edge once more, instantly, headfirst into an ocean of pleasure. He was there with her this time, strong and sure.
Perfection.
She fell to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Pippa,” he whispered at her temple, his heart beating rapidly beneath her ear. “Philippa.”
The reverence in his tone made her ache, and she felt him pull away from her even as he remained inside her, closer than anyone had ever been. More important than anyone had ever been.
She loved him.
And he was to marry another.
Because of her.
She couldn’t allow it. There had to be a better way. A solution that made them both happy. She closed her eyes, loving the feel of his warm chest against her cheek, and for one, fleeting moment, she imagined what it would be like to experience happiness with him. To be his wife. His woman. His partner.
His love.
It was no longer a myth, that mysterious emotion—no longer in doubt. It was real, and it held a power that Pippa had never imagined. One she could not deny.
He was whispering at her hairline, the words more breath than sound. “You are so remarkable. I could lie here forever, with you in my arms, the rest of the world distant. I ache for you, love . . . even now. I imagine I will ache for you forever.”
She lifted her head, meeting his pewter gaze. “You don’t have to.”
He looked away. “I do. You’re my great work, Pippa. You’re the one I can save. I can ensure your happiness. And I shall. And it shall be enough.”
She hated the words. “Enough for whom?”
Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Regret? “Enough for us both.”
It wouldn’t be, though. Not for her. She knew that without question. “No,” she whispered. “No it shan’t.”
He stroked one hand down her bare back, sending a shiver of awareness through her. “It shall have to be.”
“You don’t have to marry her,” she said, softly, hearing the plea in the words. Loathing it.
“But I do, lovely,” he said, the words soft and firm. “You’ll be destroyed if I don’t. And I won’t have that.”
“I don’t care. You could marry me. If I am able to choose the earl whom I marry, then—”
“No.” He tried to cut her off. She pressed on.
“—I choose you,” she said, her voice breaking on the words.
He held her close, kissing at her temple, whispering her name again before saying, “No you don’t. You don’t choose me.”
Except she did. “Why not?”
“Because you choose Castleton.”
It was somehow truth and lie, all at once. “Just as you choose Knight’s daughter?”
Even as you lie here with me?
His hands stilled on her skin. “Yes.”
“But you don’t know her.”
“No.”
“You don’t love her.”
“No.”
Do you love me?
She couldn’t ask him. Couldn’t bear the answer.
But he seemed to hear the question anyway, hand coming to her jaw, lifting her to meet his gaze . . . his lips.
Yes, she imagined he meant.
He rolled her to her back on the bed, keeping them joined as he settled between her thighs and made love to her mind and soul and body with everything he had, moving in her with quiet certainty, holding her gaze with undeniable intensity. Kissing the swell of her br**sts and the column of her neck and worrying the soft lobe of one ear, whispering her name in a long, lovely litany.
There was nothing brute about this. Nothing beastly.
Instead, it was slow and seductive and he moved for what seemed like hours, days, an eternity, learning her, touching and exploring, kissing and stroking. And as pleasure washed over her in lush waves, rocketing through her until she could no longer hold it, he captured her cries with his lips, finding his own release, deep and thorough and magnificent before speaking again, whispering her name again and again, until she no longer heard the word and instead heard only the meaning.