The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(80)

Though perhaps after one more time together?

They were stuck here tonight, just the two of them, and it seemed fitting to enjoy one last round of meaningless pleasure with him. It was what he was good at, after all. She’d make certain to keep her heart firmly in her chest, locked away for the entire experience. Men did it all the time, so how hard could it be?

I’m rationalizing so I can sleep with him again.

“Katherine?” he asked when she didn’t respond. “What’s going on in your head?”

If only she knew.

Slipping off the stool, she headed toward him. “Why must I be so attracted to you?”

The lines of his face sharpened, intensified, as he tracked her approach, and ribbons of longing unfurled in her belly, her skin turning hot and itchy. He straightened but otherwise didn’t move. “Is this the champagne’s influence?”

“I wish.” She was now directly in front of him, her neck craned to see him because of his obnoxious height. He was so big and solid, like a giant marble sculpture come to life. “Blaming the alcohol would make things easier.”

“I would never force you.”

She dragged her fingertips along the opening of his shirt, right at the base of his throat, to feel the warm smooth skin, and his chest rose and fell on a quick breath. “I know,” she said, flicking open the buttons along his chest.

“Then, why? If you don’t want to—”

“I want to.” After sliding his suspenders off his shoulders, she yanked his shirttails out of his trousers and shoved the cotton up over his head. This left his impressive torso clad in a thin sleeveless undergarment, and she was impatient to see the rest of him. Her hands swept his shoulders. “You are annoyingly handsome.”

“Annoying, is it?”

“Very.”

He kept his arms at his sides while she plucked at the fastenings of his trousers. “Are you determined to do this here? The workbench is a good height for it, but the stone might not be comfortable for you.”

The workbench? She looked in horror at the marble. “Where you were gutting the fish?”

Chuckling, he bent and lifted her up, guiding her legs around his waist. “Come along and let’s find a proper bed. I want to take my time with you and I don’t want you thinking about trout.”

She wrapped around him and pressed her corset-less breasts against his chest. “I want to see where you sleep.” She’d only yet seen the place he used for liaisons, not somewhere he actually lived. She was curious to see where he let down his guard and relaxed.

“It’s not very exciting.” He started up the wide staircase. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“Doubtful.” She noticed the walls were bare here, too. “What do you have against works of art decorating the walls? That Sisley you were admiring at the exhibition would be perfect. Or perhaps a Turner or Cole painting.”

“Make a list and I’ll have them purchased and hung.”

While she was flattered, she knew she wouldn’t be around to see a list through. After tonight, she’d return to the city and move on from Preston Clarke. In time her broken heart would mend. She would eventually recover. Little by little, day by day, she’d find herself again.

They finally entered a large bedchamber that was both impersonal and yet utterly Preston at the same time. The bed, a huge wooden affair, was perfectly made, as if it hadn’t been slept in. Plain walls—because this was Preston—and rustic wooden furniture that fit the style of the lodge. The curtains and bedclothes were dark blue, and there was a stack of papers on the nightstand with a pair of eyeglasses.

Instead of dropping her on the bed, he laid her down and followed, his big body covering hers. With so few layers separating them, she could feel every bit of his large frame, the weight of him overwhelming her senses. She couldn’t resist running her foot along the back of his leg.

He propped on an elbow and used his free hand to caress her cheek. The tenderness in his gaze nearly did her in. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“You. This. Tonight.”

A crease formed between his brows. “You aren’t going to disappear on me again, are you?”

“No,” she lied. “Though we can’t stay here forever.”

Warm lips began coasting over her throat, sending shivers of pleasure all along her skin. “Maybe we can,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ll keep you here and never let you go.”

“Who will conquer New York City, then?”

“I’m only interested in conquering you.”

They both knew that wasn’t true—and she didn’t want more of his lies. Despite his promise to always tell her the truth, he’d schemed behind her back to get his hands on the Twenty-Third Street property. So she needed to keep this light and easy, nothing more than this bed and their pleasure. “Stop talking and get busy, Preston.”

“I’m enjoying this take-charge side of you.” Coming up onto his knees, he removed his shirt from her body. Then he worked to unbutton the union suit she wore, his fingers working too slowly for her liking.

She reached and unfastened his trousers. Then they worked together to rid themselves of their remaining clothes until they were both bare. Preston was a slab of sinewy muscle, with fascinating ridges and angles, and she just had tonight to explore him.