His hand braced beside her head, the other spanning her waist, holding her in place as his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that bordered on feral.
There he is.This so-called beast.
Not cruel. A little uncontrolled. But fierce.
And… She trusted it.
Trusted him.
Her fingers curled into his coat, not to push him away—but to anchor herself as his mouth grew more demanding, as his body pressed closer.
He made a low sound in his throat—rough, urgent.
Yes.
His hand—strong and sure—glided over the curve of her hip, andthen around to her backside, gripping and kneading her lush curves as though he were tracing her shape, searching for her grain.
She remembered his warning about the pine—how it was “soft wood." It would "show every mark left behind.”
Yes. Please.
Rosamund’s pulse raced, her breath came uneven, and yet beneath it all was a quiet certainty: With him, she would always be safe.
She didn't feel the need to shrink away. Instead, she arched into him, wanting to be the wood that took his "stain," wanting to be the surface he marked with his passion.
His mouth tore from hers. “What are you doing to me?” he rasped, his teeth dragging along her shoulder.
Rosamund trembled, arching into him. “Me?”
He pulled away just enough for his eye to catch hers, dark and blazing. “Yes, you, woman.”
The possessiveness in it made her shiver.
“Why?” she whispered.
His eye narrowed, but his mouth curved. “Allow me to show you.”
His fingers slipped between them, hooking on the silk of her bodice. Then he tugged. Seams parted beneath his work-worn grip, sending fabric sliding down her arms as cool air kissed newly-bared skin.
She gasped—not from modesty, but from the sudden exposure. From the way his gaze followed the descent of silk as though unveiling something sacred.
His knuckles skimmed her shoulder as the gown slipped lower, deliberate, unhurried. Not destruction.
Revelation.
And the look in his eye told her he had no intention of stopping.
But the chill was brief. His mouth was there in an instant, hot and devouring, as he pulled one nipple deep into his mouth. He groaned, a sound rough and desperate, as though he were starving for the very abundance she’d always wanted to hide.
“Freckles,” he muttered against her skin, his lips brushing the curve of her breast. His tongue traced over the faintest speck. “All lead to hidden treasure.” He kissed another, lower. “So much hidden treasure.”
Rosamund’s head fell back against the door, her eyesfluttering shut. She had spent her life feeling like she was too much, but under Julian’s touch, she felt like… more wasbetter.
“God help me.” His voice vibrated low against her skin, the sound traveling through her like a pulse.
Rough whiskers dragged over tender flesh. The scrape made her gasp—a sharp, delicious sting that sent heat rushing downward. And then his mouth followed, warm and damp, closing over the place he had just abraded.
Her fingers tightened in his hair as sensation rippled outward, tightening low in her belly, feeding a deep, aching throb.