And soft. So unbearably soft.
“I don’t see any—”
Wham.
She used her other hand to give him a faceful of cake.
He stood sputtering, temporarily blinded by marzipan. Her laughter rang dimly through the icing in his ears. And, as he wiped his face clean, he was caught off guard again—this time by a sense of admiration.
It took a sharp opponent to land a blow on him. Well done, her.
“You cunning little minx. Now you’re in for it.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet. His boot caught the hem of her frock, and she gave a shriek of laughter as together they tumbled to the ground.
They landed in a heap. One of his legs covered both of hers.
“I win,” he said.
She began to object. His hand was still coated with strawberry cake. Using his thumb, he pushed a morsel of it into her mouth.
That was a mistake.
Her lips and tongue wrapped around his thumb, sending a jolt of arousal straight to his cock.
Worse yet, she moaned as his thumb slid free. The gentle vibration slid down his spine, making him wild.
She fed him the hunk of plum cake she still clutched, pushing it into his mouth with her delicate fingertips. He caught her wrist and sucked her fingers clean, one by one, groaning softly. The tastes of spice and chocolate and ripe berries mingled on his tongue.
“There,” she breathed. “See? I win. You make cake sounds, too.”
“Those aren’t cake sounds.”
They were Clio sounds.
It wasn’t cakes he craved. It was this. This closeness. This softness. This sweetness that came not from spun sugar and candy floss, but from her.
Just her.
Every shred of his conscience shouted at him to remember his career. Think of his brother. For the love of God, get the hell off her.
But she was so lovely and fresh—and not only sweet, but the perfect amount of tart. Her chest quaked with laughter, and her breasts danced under his chest. Damn, he hadn’t laughed like this with anyone in years. Perhaps he never had.
He didn’t know how to pull away.
Women liked him. He’d never had difficulty finding female company. But his lovers wanted the scoundrel and prizefighter. A big, hotheaded brute to toss them around the bed and pump them until they screamed. As a younger man, he’d been happy—hell, ecstatic—to oblige. But over the years, he’d come to crave more in the bedchamber than a bit of sweaty exertion.
Things like tenderness. Understanding. Laughter.
Moments just like this.
“Rafe . . .”
He shushed her, swiping the mussed hair from her brow. “You have icing on your forehead.”
“Oh, dear.” She reached to dab her left temple. “Here?”
“No. Here.” He licked the smear of vanilla from the right side of her brow.
She trembled, but she didn’t shy from him.
“There’s some here, too,” he lied. He ran his tongue over her cheekbone. She was more delicious than any icing. More tempting than any cake.
“Is that all of it?”
“No.” He touched his tongue to the corner of her lips.
And then they were kissing again, and her lips parted beneath his. Her arms went around his neck, and his legs tangled in her skirts. He rolled atop her lush body, shameless. Letting her abundant curves cradle all his hard, aching need. Sweeping his tongue between her lips. Again and again.
As if he kissed her deeply enough, he could claim her for his own.
She’s not yours, a voice inside him said.
He ignored it. He kissed down her neck and he slid one arm beneath her, gathering her by the waist and drawing her body tight against his. Until he held her so close she could have been a part of him.
She’s not.
She’s not yours.
He lifted his head abruptly. They were both breathing hard.
“I—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t explain or make excuses. Please. If I have to hear again how this is just a bit of impersonal lust, or to settle a score from your adolescence . . . you’ll crush me.”
“I won’t tell you that.” He would be lying if he did. This was more dangerous than lust or envy.
Rafe rolled to the side, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what the hell to call this feeling in his chest. But labels didn’t matter. He wasn’t free to explore it.
“You’re. Engaged. To. My. Brother.” Maybe if he spoke the words aloud, and slowly enough, they might sink into his conscience.
“I don’t have to be.” She struggled to a sitting position. “I could be not-engaged with a stroke of the pen.”
“It’s not that simple.” He sat up, too.
“It truly is.” She reached to wipe a bit of cake from his face. “Emotionally, he and I have no attachment. It’s just a matter of legalities. The moment you signed those dissolution papers, I’d be free. We’d be free.”
“To do what? Something you’d immediately regret?” He flicked a morsel of cake from his trouser leg.
“Why would I regr . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. “Oh, God. Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“My engagement ring.” She flashed her naked, sticky hand at him. “It’s gone.”
He swore.
“We have to find it. It’s worth a fortune.” She rose from the carpet, looking high and low in her search. “It must have come off when I was sticking my hand in one of the cakes. I think I remember having it after the chocolate. And the almond. That would mean it got stuck in the . . .”