The Rogue Not Taken
It was sheer, unadulterated desire.
Desire for another person who understood.
Who did not judge.
Who wanted.
Sophie understood that better than anyone.
And then the laces on her dress were free, and her breasts were spilling into his palms, and his thumbs were sliding over the tips as he lifted them up and he stared down at them. “You’re magnificent.”
She believed him as he leaned down and sucked one rosy, pebbled tip into his mouth, working with lips and tongue around and around until she was squirming on his lap and he was lifting her to rearrange her until she was on her knees, above him, and he was worshipping her.
It felt like worship every time his tongue worked its slow orbit.
It felt like worship every time his fingers stroked across her skin.
It felt like worship when he opened his green eyes and stared up at her, as though she were his anchor in the storm.
She wanted to be that. Now.
Forever.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He released her. “Yes what?”
“Yes anything. Whatever you want.”
He blew a long, wonderful line of air over the place where she wanted him. “But what do you want, Sophie?”
She put her fingers in his hair, marveling at its softness. “I want your tongue.” Later, she would be shocked and a little embarrassed by the words, ladies did not say tongue, she was sure. But now, she didn’t care.
He groaned and gave it to her, long, lingering licks that threatened her sanity. “You are dangerous for me.”
She smiled. “Dangerous how?”
His fingers slid into her hair, her pins scattering across the chair, across the floor of the library, her curls falling down around them. He stared deep into her eyes. “You make me want . . .”
She lowered herself to his lap, feeling him hard and strong beneath her. He growled low in his throat, and power thrummed through her. “What do you want?” she asked, repeating his words, shocked at the sound of them on her lips, low and full of desire.
She was a different woman when she was with him.
He took her mouth again, in a deep, shattering kiss, and when he released her, they were both panting. “You make me want,” he said simply. “Christ, Sophie. You make me want.”
The words shattered her as much as the kiss had.
She nodded. “I want, as well.”
Everything he could give her.
All the bits and pieces. Even if they were just bits and pieces. She would take them.
He closed his eyes. “Fuck.” The curse came soft and shocking, and Sophie stilled as he sat up, his hands no longer lingering, no longer holding, now pulling her bodice up around her.
What had she done?
“King?” she asked, his hands at the laces of her gown, pulling them tight, making her panic. Had she done something wrong? “What’s happened?” Once it was done and she was dressed, he lifted his eyes to hers, and she relaxed, recognizing the desire there, restrained, but clear as the North Country sky. “Why did you stop?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and dark and full of want.
“For stopping?” She stared down at him, more confused than she’d ever been in her life. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
“But I do. For all of it,” he said. “For the things I’ve done and said to you. For bringing you here. For this.”
“I was quite enjoying it.”
He exhaled, the sound harsh in their close quarters. “That’s the problem.”
Her eyes widened. “It is?”
He stood, guiding her feet to the floor. “No. Of course I want you to enjoy it. But this . . .” He paused and cursed again, low and wicked in the quiet library. “Christ. I was enjoying it, too. Too much. I can’t enjoy it, Sophie. I can’t enjoy you. And you shouldn’t enjoy me.”
Too late.
Her brow furrowed. “Why not?” She cast about for a way to protect herself. “You promised you’d ruin me, didn’t you? This is it, isn’t it?”
He looked at her then, his green eyes glittering with anger and frustration and something near sorrow. And then he broke her heart.
“I’ve no intention of making love to you, Sophie. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Chapter 17
KING ONCE, DUKE TO BE
He spent the next day roaming about the castle, half avoiding Sophie and half hoping he’d find her. Half hoping that seeing her might restore the incredible relief he’d felt once he’d told her the truth about Lorna and she hadn’t run screaming from the room—a relief that had been consumed by guilt at her disappointment when he’d told her he wouldn’t make love to her.
By afternoon, he’d found himself in the library once more, deep into the scotch, seated in the chair where he’d had her the night before, torturing himself with the memory of her exploring the massive room with exhilarating pleasure, eating her tart with the same. It occurred to him that he would think of her that way now, laughing with the servants, sighing over pasties, facing him in the dining room.
He’d think of her with passion.
She was all passion and strength and perfection, and stopping himself from taking her there, in that chair, on the floor, against the shelves of the library, again and again until neither of them remembered anything but each other, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
But leaving her had been far more difficult.
And that terrified him.
As a gentleman, he should not have felt guilt. He did not ruin her, despite their idiotic agreement. That was the point of it, no? It was his role as a decent man to protect her virtue, was it not? But guilty he was, and it had nothing to do with not taking her to bed.