Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

He turned to her; his eyebrows drew down. He stared at her for a few seconds, and then he shook his head.

“Speak already.” She felt on the edge of desperation. “Tell me. What have you to fear? I can’t hurt you. And you can’t possibly hurt me more than you already have.”

“Women are the most curious creatures.” He reached out and caught a strand of her hair against her cheek.

That bare contact froze her. “Oh?”

“That’s what you think, is it? That I haven’t kissed you for lack of interest?”

“If you really wanted me, you wouldn’t be able to hold back. I understand how these things work.”

“Someone has been telling you lies. You must think all men are beasts by nature. That we see a thing, and like Champion, we charge unthinking across the field.”

He leaned toward her, and Kate moved back. The wood of the fence post pressed against her.

“You must think we have no semblance of control, that we can do nothing except obey our baser urges.”

That had rather been the import of the furtive discussions she’d conducted with her married friends. It was, after all, why men took mistresses—because they could not control their urges. So she’d been told.

“You’re half right,” he continued. “We are all beasts. And we do have base urges—deep, dark thoughts that you would shrink from, Kate, if you heard what they whispered. We have wants, and trust me, I want.”

She swallowed and looked up at him. He looked no different than before. He had that carefree, casual smile on his face, and for all that he loomed over her, his stance was easy. But she saw something in his expression—a tightening of his brow, the unbidden press of his lips—some quiet, unexplainable thing that suggested gray clouds lurked behind the casual sunrise of his smile.

“Right now,” Ned said, lifting a hand toward her, “I am thinking about taking you against that post.”

Her lungs contracted.

“Trust me when I say I am a beast.”

His fingers brushed down the rough lace at her neck. He found the line of her collarbone through the fabric. The gentleness of his touch belied the harshness of his tone; his hands were warm against her skin. He ran his finger down the seam of her bodice, down her ribs. The trail burned a line down her body. And then his palm cupped her waist and he pulled her closer. She tilted her head up to look in his face. His eyes were hot and unforgiving, and she could almost see the beast that he claimed he was reflected in them. And then his head dipped down—oh so slowly, so gently.

She might have escaped if she had simply turned her head. But she tasted the heat of his breath; she could still feel his words searing into her lips. I am thinking about taking you against that post.

In the back of her mind a voice called out in warning. He would kiss her and be done; he might even have her against that post. It was his prerogative as her husband. And when he was done, he would walk away. As always, she would be the one left wanting upon his departure. She had to protect herself. She had to turn—

But she was already wanting, and it would serve nobody to send him away. And the truth was, women were beasts, too. She could feel the desire in her, crouched like some dark panther, ready to strike if he backed away.

He didn’t. Instead, his lips touched hers. They were gentle for only that first blessed second of searing contact. Then his hands came behind her and he lifted her up, pressing her against the post. His body imprinted itself against hers. His mouth opened, and he took the kiss she had so desperately wanted. His lips were not kind or polite or gentlemanly; his kiss was dark and deep and desperate, and Kate could have drowned in it. He tasted incongruously of peppermint. She gave back, because she wanted, and she had not stopped wanting.

She was not sure how long they kissed. It might have been a minute; it could have been an hour. But when he pulled his head away, she felt the sunshine on the back of her neck, heard a lark calling in some sad minor key from the faraway forest. Every nerve in her body had come to life; every sense was heightened.

“You see,” Ned said, “men are beasts. But the difference is, I control my beast. It doesn’t control me. Don’t think my control means anything other than…my control. Because right now the beast wants. It wants to ravage you, out here in the open where anyone can see. It wants to take you, and it will be damned if you’re not ready.”

“I’ve always been ready.” She heard the confession slip from her mouth, so clear and crystalline.

“Really?” His tone was dry. “‘I think our marriage might dry up and blow away,’” he paraphrased at her, “‘with one good gust of wind.’ Kate, you don’t even trust me. I would be a monster if I came back after a three-year absence and expected everything to resume, just like that.”