Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (new books to read TXT) 📕

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