A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(107)

She licked over the tip of him, the salt and sweet of him tempting her even as he groaned her name, his hands coming to her, fingers sliding into her hair—not pulling to or pushing away, but cradling her with near-unbearable gentleness.

“Once more,” she whispered his words back to him, and the groan deepened, his fingers flexing against her as she parted her lips and took him slow and deep, adoring the feel of him. The steel of him. The desire that rioted through him.

And through her, as well, as he gasped his pleasure in a wicked, tempting echo of what she had experienced only minutes earlier.

She’d never in her life wanted anything more than Alec’s pleasure, and that desire drove her further, licking and sucking and drawing him as deep as she could, playing with speed and sensation, finding the places that seemed to drive him wild and trying—desperately—to send him over the edge.

His hands tightened in her hair. “I can’t . . . Lily . . . Please . . . If you don’t . . . I won’t be able to . . .” The words were a growl, deep and fierce. “Lily.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered to the pulsing, beautiful head of him. “I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to give it to me. All of it. Let me revel in you.”

He whispered her name, dark and sinful in the little room, and Lily thrummed with power. With passion. With her own desire as she sucked deeper, licked, found a rhythm that brought them both to the edge, a string of Gaelic on his lips as he gave himself up to her, to passion, and finally, finally, with her name on his lips, to release.

She stayed with him, adoring him as he basked in his pleasure before ultimately lifting her to lay with him, pulling her into his arms, running his hands over her naked skin, whispering long strings of his lovely, lyric language against her hair, interspersing the words with soft, lingering kisses until she shivered and he pulled a blanket over them both.

“That was—”

The words were barely there—a rumble beneath her ear as much as anything else—trailing off, his thought incomplete. She smiled, kissing his chest. “I agree.”

“Lily,” he whispered, those massive hands still moving, cloaking her in warmth and love and security. “My Lily.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Yours.”

His hands stilled at the word, just barely, just enough for her to shift at the change, and he began anew, long, languid glides that tempted her with comfort she had never before experienced.

“Sleep,” he said, and there was something in the soft, rough word that sent a thread of unease whispering through her, but she was too exhausted to consider it. Too consumed with him to be able to think of a time he might not be with her. Touching her. A part of her.

His hands stroked over and over, until avoiding sleep became an impossibility. Lily closed her eyes and pressed closer to him with a final, soft plea. “Be here in the morning. We shall start anew.” And then, from the edge of sleep, “Do not leave me. Be here.”

Be mine.

Not two hours later, she woke in the darkness, cold and alone beneath the covers of her Berkeley Square bed. The curtains were open, but the London night beyond was dark as soot—the darkness that came when it was nearly dawn.

She sat up to light the candle on the bedside table, knowing even before the spark turned to flame what she would find.

He was gone.

Tears came, desperate and unavoidable as she looked around the room, this room that she’d chosen because she’d once been so lonely, and now fairly breathed with the memory of him. Of his touch. Of his kiss. Of his past and the way it destroyed him even as it made him the man he was.

He’d left her.

She threw her feet over the edge of the bed and Hardy sprang awake, a yelp of surprise waking Angus, who slept at the threshold of the room.

Hope slammed through her. The dogs were here. He had not left.

And still, the thread of certainty remained.

She set one hand to Hardy’s big head, staring down into the dog’s soulful eyes. “Where is he?”

Hardy sighed longingly, and Lily understood the pathetic sound better than any she’d heard in her life.

He had left. No doubt thinking she should be without him.

No doubt thinking she could be without him.

That was when she saw the letter. On the desk, propped up next to the still-covered painting, was an envelope in familiar ecru. He’d left her a note, drafted on her own paper. Propped on a pair of baby boots—the ones with red leather soles.

He had left her.

Dreading the truth, Lily reached for the envelope, her name in bold, black scrawl across the face.

Opened it.

The dowry is yours. The money due to you today, as well. And, of course, the painting, to do with what you wish.

I am leaving you Angus and Hardy—they have loved you from the start, and will be able to protect you better than I ever could. Not that you need them. You have always been strong enough to keep yourself safe.

You are the most glorious woman I have ever known, beautiful and passionate and powerful beyond measure, and no man will ever be worthy of you, especially not me. You asked me once for freedom, Lily, and though I have been a terrible guardian, today, I can give you that. Freedom to leave this place or stay in it. To be a queen of London and the world. To have the life you wanted. The life you dreamed of. The children, the marriage, the little feet that fit these silly red boots.