Copyright 2025, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.
He stepped around her, his height and breadth a barrier between her and the wind. He lifted her chin. His tormented gaze deepened to a river of regret as the gathering clouds blocked out the sun. Catching her wrists, he pressed the palms of her hands to the flat of his chest. Beneath her flesh, his own pounded. “If I could, I would marry one woman.”
She could not bear to ask if that lady was her. Oh, but she could hope. “What deters you?”
“She and I are star-crossed.”
“Can that chasm not be bridged?”
He brought her hands up to his lips, and the journey they took began with the press of his lips to one wrist, then the other. “No,” he rasped. “She is not mine to have.”
“How…how do you know?”
He opened one palm and licked the skin. She trembled at his ardor.
“She wants, she deserves, more than I can give her.”
“Sometimes,” she ventured, caught between desire and propriety, “love can grant more to a relationship than circumstances provide.” She had no knowledge of that, no understanding. She had heard it whispered among her childhood friends in Crawford’s school, or read of it in books that were in essence fairytales for adults.
He hooded his eyes as he bent and nipped the pad of one thumb, then the other. His lips stirred fresh, hot hunger in her blood.
She threw back her head, her eyes squeezed shut. “Please stop.”
He circled her waist with both arms and pulled her against him. His lips in her hair, he whispered, “I can’t.”
’Twas then she threw all caution to the windy afternoon, reached up, and caught his cheeks. Sliding up against the bulwark of his fabulous body, she put her lips to his.
No man had she ever kissed. She knew not how, exactly. But in that moment, instinct was her guide and she took his lips, parted from him, and took them again. He groaned and crushed his mouth on hers. Heaven, at once, appeared before her.
He was fierce in his claim. Ravenous. His arms were iron, his lips a brand, his tongue a fierce probe she met with a cry of delight. He’d said he was not married. He was gentle, persuasive—an animal who took and gave. He’d said he could not marry because the one he desired was so different. But in the command of his kiss, the claim of his tongue, the groan from his throat, he declared how he wanted her.
She believed him. His fierce possession of her. His words.
And she let him have her. All of her. Her lips, her teeth, her heart. How could he not want to claim her? She wanted all of him!
He broke their kiss.
She gasped for air and marveled at the look on his face.
He was enchanted—torn and furious. He cupped her shoulders. His voice a rasp, he said, “I must go.”
Dazed, she let him steady her on her feet. Insulted, heartbroken, she fought for sanity. He would leave her? After this? Was he a fool?
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