Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(54)

She took the cup from his hand and lifted it to her lips. “I’d prefer the gin.”

“I know you would. And I’d prefer you didn’t drink quite so much of it.”

Her eyes flashed at him over the teacup’s rim.

“What?” he asked. “You’re concerned for me. I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

She swallowed her mouthful of tea. “You should stay here tonight. With me.”

God. He didn’t think any part of his body could throb more forcefully than his wounded pate. But he was proven wrong.

With a rough sigh, he drew up a stool and sat across from her. “What are we to each other?”

She blinked at him. “You want to discuss the state of our relationship?”

He nodded.

“What sort of man enters this sort of conversation willingly?”

“A man who’s tired of sleeping out on the moor alone.” And not because he was worried about falling rocks or ghosts or Gideon Myles, but because he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay away.

“We’re friends, Rhys. And I think I’ve made it clear that we could be … closer friends, whenever you wish.”

“Closer friends,” he repeated thoughtfully, reaching out to catch a loose strand of her hair. “How close?”

She set aside her tea, then inched forward on her chair. His heart began to pound, just from her nearness.

“Very close,” she whispered, leaning in. Her lips brushed his. “Body to body.” Another kiss. “Skin to skin.”

He couldn’t stop himself. He slid both hands to her waist and pulled her into his lap. She straddled his hips, locking her arms around his neck. Their mouths came together, open and willing and ready to meld into one.

And even though his eyes were closed, for a moment Rhys felt like his double vision had returned—because her hands were everywhere. There had to be more than two of them. He felt her grasping at his shoulders, cupping his face, clutching his neck. Not to be outdone, he cinched his arms around her and pulled her flush against his bare chest, anchoring her there with his forearms while his hands slid up to her hair.

Ah, her hair. So abundant, so soft. He thrust his hands in that thick, dark mane, sifting the strands through his fingers, and then grasping big handfuls close to her scalp and twisting, just a little, to repay her for that trick with the gin.

She moaned around his tongue. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she rocked her hips.

And now it was his turn to moan.

She made a slow circle with her pelvis, grinding against his arousal. Much as he hated relinquishing his grip on her hair, he slid his hands to her hips and grabbed tight, dragging her over his hard length again. He needed this, he needed more of it … He just needed, so damn much. To feel good, for a change. To make her feel good, too.

He had a fresh head wound, and she’d been working hard from dawn to dusk and beyond—but all he could think of was getting under her skirt and working her all night long.

She writhed against him as they kissed, her motions increasingly frantic. He guided her hips with his hands, pressing her closer, increasing the friction, setting a firm, brisk rhythm.

Close friends, had she said? Well, Rhys was getting all kinds of close. And judging by the little mewling sounds she made in the back of her throat, so was she. Now it was just a race to the finish, and by God he wanted her to win. He wanted to give her pleasure even more desperately than he craved his own release. And he craved his own release more than he wanted air.

With a sudden gasp, she pulled back. “We can’t, not here,” she panted. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He sat stunned, open-mouthed, his lungs seizing and his loins painfully bereft of contact.

“Come along.” She tugged at him.

After a moment, he released a curse and a sigh. Ten seconds ago, if she’d shoved aside her petticoats and hiked up her skirts, he would have buried himself in her warm, wet body without a moment’s hesitation. But a few seconds of separation and the renewed pounding in his head, combined with the prospect of that long flight of stairs … There were just enough obstacles to his bounding lust that his tortoise-like intelligence managed to catch up. “It isn’t enough.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. Too many clothes between us. Let’s go upstairs.” She kissed his neck.

His hands went to her shoulders. “No,” he repeated, pushing her back. “It still won’t be enough. Body to body, skin to skin. It’s not enough. I don’t want … friendship without clothing. I need a marriage.”

She traced the line of his jaw. “Why must you always be thinking of the future? Just think of tonight.”

Damn his eyes, how ironic. For so many years he’d never considered the future. Not once. In fact, he’d spent a great deal of effort and spilled a great deal of blood—his and others’—trying to ensure there wouldn’t be a future, not for him. And now … now he had plans and desires, and a half-built cottage up on that slope. A future. He couldn’t simply give that up, collapse it all to one fleeting night of pleasure with no promise of more.

“I am thinking of tonight.” His voice was a low rasp. “I am thinking—in shameless detail—of taking you upstairs, stripping you bare, and doing unspeakable things to you all night long. Touching you everywhere. Tasting you everywhere. And I know, as sure as I know my own name, it still won’t be enough. I will want you again tomorrow, and then the day after that, and again and again and again. That’s why I need those vows. I need to hear you say you’re mine forever before I have you at all. Because I know I will never, ever get enough.”