And she could only ride them out, for she knew not how long, eventually sagging weakly against the door, trembling from head to toe.
Slowly, awareness seeped back.
The door at her back.
Her thighs propped on broad shoulders.
Blinking, Rosamund stared down, in part wonder and part disbelief.
At the Beast of Bexley, who was still under her skirts.
ANOTHER VISITOR
Julian was still hard. Achingly so. Harder than he could ever remember being.
Her taste lingered on his tongue, sweeter and richer than his favorite port. He could drown in her—God help him, hewantedto drown in her—listening to those little cries, feeling the flutter of her muscles against his mouth, plump flesh tightening around his ears, the desperate tug of her fingers in his hair.
After feeling her body unravel beneath his hands and mouth, the need in him had sharpened—that he rise, press her against that door, and this time, lose himselfcompletelyinside her.
But he did not. Rather, he remained where he was, lost in Rosamund’s skirts, her thighs resting on his shoulders, trembling.
He inhaled slowly, resting his cheek against the inside of her leg. Strong but warm. And softer than rose petals.
He had let passion take him.
Reluctantly, he shifted, easing her delicious legs from his shoulders with careful hands. He stayed close, steadying her as her knees wavered. His palms lingered as he smoothed her skirts back into place, then traced the line of her hip as he rose to face her.
Still hard. Still wanting.
Her bodice had fallen, baring the most glorious bosom he could have imagined—creamy white, rose-tipped, full, more than a handful. Faint pink marks stood out on her skin, his marks, from his hands, from his mouth. Each curve rose and fell with her uneven breaths.
But it wasn’t her body that sent his heart racing.
It was her face—her cheeks flushed, brilliant gold and red hair tumbling loose, lips swollen from having been thoroughly kissed.
And her eyes—blue, wide, shining with wonder and something perilously close to trust.
How was it possible for her to trust him?
He tried for a scowl. Tried to summon the beast the world believed him to be. But then?—
She smiled at him. A small, wobbly, utterly devastating smile.
“Well,” she said, her voice still husky. “That was unexpected.”
And he couldn’t help but smile back at her.
How the hell had this happened?
She trusted him—against all common wisdom, by God, she trusted him.
He should excuse himself. From the dining hall. From the manor. Hell, from the damned estate itself. And not return until he knew she was gone.
But instead, his hands betrayed him.
He reached out and drew up her bodice, then her puffed little sleeves, tugging the fabric to cover her bare shoulders. His thumb brushed the torn seam and he stilled, memory flashing—his own hands, his own hunger, ripping what he had no right to touch.
Julian needed–desperately–to put a stop to this.