Rafe’s pulse stuttered to a halt. His mouth dried. “No. That wasn’t me. I told you, that was Piers.”
“You’re such a terrible liar.” Her eyes shot him a lash-fringed accusation. “I thought you didn’t come to my debut. But you were there. You must have been.”
“I was there,” he admitted. “But I didn’t stay for long. I left almost as soon as I arrived.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t stand to be there another moment. I’ve told you how it was. I fancied you then, and you know how I always envied Piers. That night was . . . It was torture. I hated what they’d done to you. The whole purpose of the evening was to wrap you up like the world’s shiniest birthday gift and present you to Piers for his approval.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “It made me want to hit things. So I went out and found something to hit.”
“I don’t blame you for leaving.” She touched his shoulder. “I wanted to escape, too.”
Her words set alarms ringing through his brain, but he was lost for a response. Rendered speechless by the sensation of her fingertips caressing his bare skin. He’d wanted her for so damned long. She was so beautiful. So beautiful, and so here. With him.
With him.
The wrong man. The worst man.
“Clio . . .” His voice was strangled.
“Hush.” She rose onto her knees and closed the distance between them. “Just stop fighting and let something wonderful happen.”
And something wonderful did happen.
She tilted her head, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his.
Sweet heaven.
He’d kissed her several times now, and each kiss had been better than the last. But being kissed by Clio? This was new, uncharted territory.
Rafe thought it just might be Paradise.
Her mouth brushed against his, her lips parting wider with each pass. Her tongue teased the corner of his lips, then made a shy sweep between them.
He moaned into her mouth, helpless to resist. Of their own accord, his arms went around her, hauling her close, helping her straddle his thighs.
But her words kept niggling at his brain.
I wanted to escape, too.
With women, Rafe knew he was usually just an escape. When they came to his bed, women were running from something. Expectations, propriety, boredom, an unhappy marriage . . . sometimes all of the above. That was why he’d cut off any liaisons well before his last fight. He’d outgrown the fun of being some kind of sexual stallion the ladies came to for a wild, reckless ride. The next time he began an affaire, he’d told himself, it would be with a woman who wasn’t running from anything. He wanted a woman who was running to him.
He rolled her onto her back and broke their kiss, gazing down at her. Searching her face for reassurance. “Tell me why you’re here with me. Why are we doing this?”
She drew a breath to respond—an act that lifted her bosom.
“Never mind,” he said, hooking a finger under the lacy neckline of her shift. “Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”
There weren’t so many buttons this time. Only five or so. He didn’t count, and he couldn’t be bothered to undo them all. As soon as he’d reached the level of her sternum, he slid his fingers underneath one panel, easing it over her shoulder and down her arm . . . exposing the pale, exquisite swell of her breast. One teasing, tempting inch at a time. Then the other.
For a long moment, he couldn’t do anything but stare.
“I hope I live up to all those years of fantasies.”
She sounded nervous, and he hated himself for making her doubt, for even one moment. An eloquent, sophisticated sort of man would compose an ode to her beauty.
He could only scrape out, “Better. You’re so much better.”
Fantasies weren’t warm. Or soft. They didn’t make his head buzz with the scent of violets.
And they weren’t here.
He found a tiny freckle on the underside of her left breast, and he treasured it, stroking lightly with his thumb. It let him know this was real.
She shivered when he cupped her with his hand. Good. Then maybe she didn’t notice him trembling.
He couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. Her skin was so smooth beneath his fingertips. Softer than petals, milkweed, clouds, dreams. And amid all this dreamy softness, her nipple drew to a tight, tawny knot, just begging for attention.
Who was he to refuse?
He bent his head and drew the peak into his mouth.
“Rafe,” she gasped. “Yes.”
Yes.
She weaved her fingers into his hair, holding him close, and his cock . . . God, his cock was just where it wanted to be, cradled against her cleft. He nudged her thighs farther apart, settling his hips between them. And then he moved against her in a slow rhythm, mimicking the act of lovemaking as he lifted and suckled her breasts.
She was quiet, but not silent. Her soft, sweet moans of pleasure slid down his back like fingernails, drawing his every nerve to awareness.
Soon she began to move with him, riding the hard ridge of his arousal. The layers of linen shift and bedsheets warmed and glided between them, adding to the friction.
And Holy God, it felt good.
So.
Damned.
Good.
Still, those words wouldn’t stop haunting him.
I wanted to escape, too.
He lifted his head. Whatever restraint he’d cultivated over the years—every shred of the discipline that had taken him from hotheaded rebel to champion—he drew on it now.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I want to know. I need to know. Why are you here with me right now?”
“Because I want you. I want this.” She arched her neck to press a kiss to his cheek, then his lips. And as she did, she shifted beneath him, rubbing against the full length of his cock.
His mind was wiped blank as a slate.
Objections? What objections? Was there some scruple he was supposed to remember? Some issue of duty or loyalty involved? Unless it lay hidden beneath the curve of her breast, he wasn’t likely to remember.
His mind could only hold one thought: Clio wanted him. And what she wanted, she would have. Here. Now. No one else mattered. No one else had ever given a damn about him, anyway.
“Rafe. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
When she whispered his name, something feral took hold of him. Pushing her thighs wider, he lowered his body to hers, needing her soft, abundant heat to cushion his pounding heart. Otherwise, the damned thing just might burst out of his chest.
He pressed his brow to hers. Touched her hair, her lovely cheek.