A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(84)

“He would take even the smallest part of her if it meant having any of her at all,” he said.

Her lips parted on a little intake of breath, and Alec ached to kiss her. “What happened?”

“Zeus gave him his wish. Endymion slept forever, ageless and deathless. And she came to him at night and watched over him with her beauty.”

“No,” she said, her grey eyes suddenly glistening. “They were never together?”

Alec’s hand moved to her cheek, his thumb capturing the single tear that escaped before it could mar her perfect skin. “They were together for eternity,” he answered, the words coming low and thick with longing. “He dreamed forever . . . always of holding the moon in his arms.”

Silence stretched between them, their gazes tangled, Alec willing himself to learn the lesson he was trying to give her. That love was not always happiness. That it was too often sorrow.

And then she lifted her hand to his, holding his palm to her cheek. “I don’t wish to hold the moon in my arms, Alec,” she whispered, grey eyes unwavering. “I wish to hold you.”

She dropped the plaid and it pooled at her hips, baring her to him, all perfection in the golden candlelight. Alec followed the fabric, sinking to his knees at the side of the bed, desire rendering him unable to stand. He bowed his head and whispered her name, a sacrifice at her temple.

She touched him gloriously, her fingers sliding into his hair. “Alec,” she whispered, “Please. Please choose me.”

As though he could choose anything else.

He lifted his head, reaching for her, taking her in hand, holding her steady. “Be certain, Lily,” he whispered. “Be certain you want me. I am coarse and unrefined and I shall never be worthy of you. But I lack the strength to deny your will.”

Her eyes went wide for a moment before she spoke, the words hot and clear as the sun, “I am not a child. I know my mind. I know the consequences to my thoughts. To my actions. I know myself. I know what is to come. I wish it, Alec.” If the words had not broken him, the movement would have—the way she leaned toward him, her lips a breath away from his.

“I will it.”

And he was hers. For one night. For eternity.





CHAPTER 17



DILUTED DUKE DAMNED BY DESIRE!

He kissed her like she was air.

Like she was all he’d ever wanted. Like she was temptation and sin and he could not stop himself.

And she reveled in it, running her hands through his hair, then down his shoulders and over his massive arms, aching for him to be closer. To be on the bed with her. She pulled back to tell him that, to beg him nearer, only to find him already watching her, brown eyes turned nearly black, lips stung with the kiss she had happily returned.

“Alec,” she whispered.

“Anything,” he said. “I am yours.”

Mine.

How long had she wanted this? How long had she ached for it? How many nights had she lain awake wishing that someone like this—strong and kind and heroic beyond measure—would find her? Would claim her?

Would love her?

She closed her eyes at the thought, knowing she asked for too much. He might not love her. But tonight, for as long as he was here, with her, she could love him. And it might be enough. “Mine?” she whispered.

He watched her carefully, his gaze lingering over her face, as though he was trying to memorize her, and she did the same, taking in his strong, unbearable beauty and wishing his words true. Forever. “Yours,” he whispered.

He made the word sound filthy. And she wanted it all the more.

She shook her head. “But it is I who is wrapped in your colors.”

His gaze slid down, over her bared breasts, to the fabric pooled at her waist. He reached for it, his fingers running over it for the barest breath before he looked to her, brow furrowed. “This isn’t my plaid. It’s the Stuart tartan, but it is too soft.”

She nodded. “It is cashmere. The dressmaker gave it to me before I left this morning . . .” She paused, not wanting to think of the dressmaker. Of the reason she had been there. For a dress for the theater. For a trousseau.

Not wanting to think of the other woman who had been there. His woman.

Alec would not let her think of those things, however. His beautiful brown gaze captured her. “You knew it would slay me.”

Lily smiled. “I hoped it would.”

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Here,” he whispered to the skin there. “This is what I saw when I entered the room. This shoulder, bare and perfect against my plaid. And you . . .” His lips moved down, over her collarbone, down the slope of her breast. “You . . . beautiful enough to be a Scottish queen.”

He took the tip of her breast in his mouth, teasing until it was hard and begging for everything he would give her, for the licks and pulls at her flesh, even as she knew she should resist. Knew she should be ashamed. But with Alec, nothing felt shameful. Nothing felt wrong. It felt as though this moment—it was her purpose. He was her destiny. She cried out at the sensation and he gentled, worrying the straining flesh with the light graze of his teeth, making her pant his name and beg for more.

He lifted his head. “Is that how you like it, mo chridhe?”

She caressed his shoulders, her hands sliding up to cup his face, to tilt him to her for a kiss. She whispered against his lips, “I like it however you wish to give it.”