Flirting With Forever (21 page)

Odd, Cam thought. He has a ring that brings him pain, but he wears it, and I have a ring I love that I hide.

“Were you together long?” she said.

“Ten years.”

“That is a long time.” And a lot to regret. But the trick had to be letting go of the regret. Starting over. That’s what Jacket wanted her to do. She’d been so angry for so long.

She had to teach herself to cling to what she had, not what she’d lost.

“Why do you wear it?” she asked.

For a long moment he was silent. Another flash of spangling lights brightened the night sky, and a soft wind blew the hair around his shoulders. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t deserve to forget.”

As he gazed at the ring, she watched his face: the pained eyes, the strong, determined mouth. “In my opinion,”

she said, “one of the hardest tasks for a human is to accept that what comes our way is a journey we need to take,” she said. “If we err, we should not add unnecessarily to our burden. Failure is enough. Nor should we try to avoid the good things that come our way serendipitously, even when the reasons for them are unclear.”

She thought of that book on Amazon and the amazing gift it had given her. She thought of Jacket, renewing his proposal. That was a good thing, right?

“Do you think al things which come our way serendipitously are good?” he asked.

“Not so much good as necessary, something we must act upon. But they can be very, very good. And it is our responsibility to find out how by working them through to their conclusion.”

“My success,” he said, “came very serendipitously.”

“Oh?”

“Which is not to say I lacked talent, but talent, as you know, is quite different from success.”

She did.

“Van Dyck—you know his work, aye?” He continued when she nodded. “I was not his pupil, yet it was impossible not to be influenced by him. He was one of the most famous artists of the time, and I traveled to Antwerp not once, but twice, to see him. He was already quite established as the portraitist to Charles’s father here in London.”

Cam tried not to move. This was exactly the information she needed.

“He looked at my work—I was exceedingly good—and gave me the usual encouragement. Wel , it so happened Elizabeth of Bohemia was at his studio at the time, as were a number of her ladies-in-waiting. There was one—Gisel e

—” He caught himself. “But perhaps that is a story best left for another time, for it caused Van Dyck trouble he did not fairly deserve. In any case, Elizabeth had the opportunity to admire a painting of mine, and when Van Dyck died, she wrote to her brother recommending my work.”

“And her brother was connected with the king?”

He laughed. “Her brother
was
the king. Charles the First.

My original patron. The father of my far more troublesome one. But my point is, things came very easily to me—my talent, my position with the court, considerable wealth. I grew accustomed to this success, placing a value on it far beyond its worth and, worse, al owing myself to grow blind to the things I had that real y did matter.”

He twisted the ring absently, eyes focused on the dark night. He gave her a sidelong smile. “Regrets.”

She touched his hand. “One must let failure be enough.”

* * *

The touch rose up his arm and exploded in his chest, like one of the fiery bursts over the river, only this one seared his heart, like the touch of God upon Adam, and he wanted her. Every particle in his body strained toward her. But she was affianced, or nearly so, and in any case, her body was committed. He had seen it with his own eyes, the way she arched, her lover’s hands upon her in her head.

The man, whoever he was, did not deserve her. To have broken her heart and then expect to be welcomed back?

Had he been married? Freed now by the death of his wife to offer her his hand? Was he married even now? Did he expect her to take a place as his mistress?

The desire Peter felt for her was no longer healing or instructive. It was like a river closing in over his head. He prayed she would leave, would glance at the clock and make her excuses, saving him from destroying this precious connection. He wanted her for the duration of the portrait, not a stolen hour. He wanted to end their time together with friendship and a hope—faint though it might be—that the future might hold something more for them.

Peter was no longer young, but he had the patience of Job, and if Jacob Ryan made the mistake of losing her again, before the Guild selected a new life for him, he would find a way to return to her. If they succumbed now, while she was committed to another, he would never see her again. No woman forgives her tempter.

She removed her hand, and he nearly col apsed, so great was the relief.

She said something about the night air, though he barely heard the words. The scent of her skin was thick in his head. Her hair, col ected in its pins, tossed off lambent sparks that put the Guy Fawkes celebration to shame. He strained to concentrate, but the graceful movement of her throat as she spoke captivated him. He wanted to draw his fingers along it, lifting her chin with his thumbs, and bring that mouth to his. In the distance, the boom of fireworks grew more frequent.

He apprehended that she had asked him a question, and his heart hammered, knowing that he’d been caught.

“I-I—”

She laughed, a rush of semiquavers that nearly undid him, and he turned to hide his emotion.

“Oh, Peter,” she said as if to an errant child. “There is paint on you.” And with a tiny sigh, she lifted her thumb and ran it across his cheek.

It was too much. He caught her hand to stop her, but the softness transfixed him. He held it, unmoving, between his palm and cheek, drinking in the heady warmth and cursing his foolhardy weakness.

“Peter.”

Smal and pained, the word was like a bruise.

He kept his eyes closed, unwil ing to see the look of shocked betrayal.

“Peter.”

This time the word was truer, deeper. It demanded his presence. He opened his eyes, and she looked at him, waves crashing in those sea blue eyes.

“I … must not,” he said, his mouth as dry as untempered pigment. “We cannot, I know.”

She pul ed her hand free and laid it across his cheek.

The last vestige of control left his head and animated his bel y. In another instant he would be victim to a mindless, unrelenting urge. She must see the danger. She must.

But she paid no heed to the primitive need she’d aroused, for aroused he was. A primitive, carnal drumbeat pounded in his veins, and his hips ached to possess her.

She brought her face close, brushing a comet of sparks across his lips, and kissed him.

He groaned at the connection, her salty-sweet taste both a balm and a torture.

She was wel schooled. Her tongue moved in his mouth like a whip, a plain invitation to the pleasures she offered and a shocking exposé of the pleasures she’d learned to bestow.

He wanted to strip her of those memories. He wanted to own those kisses, master that unapologetic mouth. There were ways to inhabit a woman from toes to forehead, leaving not a whit of space for rivals, to stir her slowly, make her a slave to her changing need, until her cries fil ed the room. But he also knew the price he would pay.

“Stop,” he said. “You do not want this.”

But she did. It had been so, so long since she’d felt this, so, so long since she’d felt entirely at ease, the ground was slipping beneath her. She knew she should wait, had told herself as much no more than a moment before, but those lips had melted her resolve. It wasn’t a fair fight, though she was certain for Peter it wasn’t a fight at al . His forthrightness, his unremitting honesty stripped her of any ability to object, and any wish to. But with al the power, he must rule gently. He must not try to coax her beyond a few kisses. For if he did, they would both regret it.

A little more, she told herself. A little more. Peter wil stop it before we’ve gone too far.

“Apparently I do want it.”

She laughed, a wicked, wil ing laugh, and Peter felt himself harden. He jerked the gown open, and she gasped.

The sweet pink flesh tightened instantly. He drew his palm over its luxuriant stiffness.

“Tel me this pleases you,” he whispered.

Her lids came down. “Yes.”

He wished he could see her eyes. He wanted what he saw there to guide him. He pul ed her close and their mouths locked. Hungrily he supped, his hands in her hair, her arms locked across his back. He could feel her need, more than mere carnality, and the storm of emotion it summoned in him was driving him to the edge of endurance.

“Did he hurt you?” He must know, and the taste of honey on her neck and ear made his need for the knowledge more urgent.

“Yes.”

“I hate him for that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wil learn to endure it.”

He kissed her more and felt her tremble. If was as if she were coming to pieces, and he had to enclose her in his arms to protect her. Beyond them, the sky fil ed with light.

One boom after another. He could feel reverberations deep in his chest and wondered if she could, too. The crowds roared, and their joy floated out into the night.

He rose up and held her. “A night to remember.”

“Aye.”

He kissed her again, and she kissed back, hard and desirous, shaking him to the marrow. Drunk with an overpowering lust and joy, he brought his mouth lower and traced the edge of her shoulder. He ached to join with her, a soaring pain that ran up his back, squeezed his lungs and bisected his heart. It was nothing but disordered, raw, terrifying need.

Her skin was warm, inebriatingly scented, and in a rush he was at her nipple, tasting at last what had haunted his thoughts this last hour. It hardened further at his touch, and he flicked his tongue roughly over the intricate bas-relief.

Desire screamed in his bones. Blindly he pul ed, letting the urge take him, and her earthy, deep rumble frenzied him. The harder he pul ed, the louder the sounds grew and the less rational his thoughts became.

His hands knew no master. Her hips ground under his brutish touch, and he desired only to tear them loose of the fabric that covered them. He fastened her hands at her back and bent her to his liking, jerking the bare breast upward. How he longed to plow her.

“Tel me,” he said, bringing his lips to her ear. “Tel me you want this.”

She did not answer, and he brought the nipple between his fingers and plucked.

She arched, a beautiful, rigid arch, and he plucked again. Her mouth fel open. Oh, how he longed to employ it.

“You have not won me,” she whispered, eyes closed.

“Not yet.”

He laughed and dropped to his knees. “Have I not?”

He rucked the gown to her waist. In the blackness of the night he laid his palms on the amorphous patches of light that must be her thighs and brought his thumbs across the silky tufts to her nexus. Gently he rol ed her bud. She gripped the railing, sounding her desire openly.

He would win her. She would rock every rooftop in London with the cries of her pleasure.

He brought his mouth to the bloom and kissed her, a slow, quivering kiss that sent a howl through his brain. She tasted of spiced summer fruit, and he drank deeply, paced by the rhythmic rocking of her hips.

Her fingers threaded his hair, urging him on, but he had better use for them.

He pul ed free and waited until she opened her eyes.

“Show me,” he demanded.

For an instant she was confused, but when her eyes flashed understanding, he saw the explosion of desire that accompanied it.

“No,” she whispered, fearful.

“Aye.” He rubbed his chin along her thigh, their gazes stil locked. “You showed me in the studio. Show me here.”

Two trembling fingers came down. He kissed them as they found their home, and he exalted in her moan. She moved slowly, but the lightest touch of his lips showed him the rhythm—her rhythm—and he supplanted her.

He was hard, harder than he’d ever been. The brush of his linen was like a sword’s thrust. He feared for his control and prayed his oblations would not leave him undone before he began.

Quick, hungry noises rose in her throat, and he paled. He must serve her as she deserved to be served. His bal s, as tight as stones, pounded between his thighs. He needed to split her wide and plant his seed, perhaps in a single brute movement. It was a battle between his consciousness and his cock, and his cock was winning.

She fretted and cried, tightening around his tongue. He could bear no more.

He stood, jerking her from the balustrade.

He pressed her against the balcony wal , heedless of the hiss she made when her flesh touched the cool brick. He flailed with his buttons. In an instant his breeks and linen were around his ankles.

He opened her skirts and lifted her knee. He knew the angle that would heighten her pleasure and pressed her to it. Her bud throbbed under his thumb, and her eyes were like a wolf’s, alight with hunger. He grasped her waist and entered her with a thrust so fevered he swore he felt the brick behind her.

He plowed her hard. Eight, ten, twelve times. By the twentieth he prayed for his soul. It was a shameful, inelegant performance, but in half a dozen more thrusts her cries began to lengthen.