And damned if she didn’t claim him in return. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair, and he settled into her mouth, stroking deep until she sighed her pleasure, the sound rushing through him, straight to the core of him, where he’d been heavy and hard for what seemed like days—any time he was around her.
He worried her lower lip with his teeth, loving the way she shivered in his arms, letting his hands find their way into her hair, scattering pins and setting loose a tide of curls. He traced the silken strands with his touch once, twice, until he couldn’t bear not to look any longer. He pulled back, loving the way she followed him, the way she resisted their separation. “Temple,” she sighed, an edge of irritation in the name.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Let me look at you.”
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His gaze devoured her, her dark hair spread wild around her shoulders, gleaming hints of red in the candlelight, her strange, gorgeous eyes filled with frustration and desire. Her lips swollen from his kiss—
He took those lips again, unable to resist them. Kissed her deep and thoroughly, memorizing the sound of her sighs, the spice of her, the feel of her against him, like nothing he’d ever felt before—
Except . . .
His head snapped up, and her eyes blinked open. “You really ought to stop stopping,” she said with a smile.
He shook his head. “At the dressmaker’s,” he began, hating the way her gaze cleared of sensuality at the words. “What you said . . .”
It is not the first time you’ve seen my underclothes.
“We’ve done this before,” he said.
Her eyes flickered to his arm, to his tattoo. “Yes.”
No. It couldn’t be the truth. He would remember this—the way her mouth felt right against hers. The way she felt right in his arms.
He kissed her again, this time a test. An experiment. He would remember her. Surely he would remember the taste of her. The sounds she made. The way she somehow drove the caress and gave herself up to it.
He would remember her.
He released her mouth, directing his kiss down the column of her neck, to the hollow of her collarbone, dipping his tongue into the indentation there, tasting her. Savoring the sigh that escaped from her lips as he slid his hands to the front tie of her bodice and released the tension there, sliding his hand into the fabric to caress the straining tip of one breast.
To bare it to the firelight.
Dear God. He would remember her.
He met her gaze, glassy with desire. “We’ve done this before.”
She hesitated, and the pause sent a thread of frustration through him. He wouldn’t let her avoid him. He wouldn’t let her lie. Not about this.
Suddenly, somehow, this seemed far more important than all the rest. He lowered the layers of fabric, watching as dark dress and pale chemise gave way to even paler skin. To perfect skin, tipped with straining flesh turned the color of honey gold in the firelight.
His mouth watered, and he lowered his lips to that place where she strained for him.
Where, somehow, he strained for her.
It took all his strength to pause there, a breath from her skin, and whisper, “We’ve done this before.”
“William.” She gasped his name in the firelight.
His real name.
He froze. As did she.
“What did you call me?”
She hesitated. “I—”
No one had called him that for a decade. For longer. Few had called him that before—but he’d always liked his women to do so. He’d liked the way the familiarity of the name brought them closer. Made them more accommodating. It had been an easy way to make them love his na?ve, idiot self.
“Say it.” The command was not to be refused.
“William,” she said, beautiful eyes filled with fire, the curve of the syllables on her warm lips making him at once furious and filled with longing.
Christ.
This had happened.
He would remember her.
Except he couldn’t. Because she’d made certain he wouldn’t. She’d stolen that night from him. This moment from him.
He released her as though she’d burned him, and perhaps she had. Perhaps the not remembering that night was the most serious of her infractions, now that he knew just what it was he could not remember.
He stood, the blood rushing through him at the movement, making his head light and his frustration acute. This woman was too much for him. He turned from her, moving away, wanting to leave her and still feeling her pull. He paced one end of the room once, twice before turning back to her.
“What else happened that night?”
She remained quiet.
Goddammit. What had happened? Had he lain her bare? Had he kissed her in a half-dozen forbidden places? Had she reciprocated? Had they enjoyed each other on that last, final night before he had woken as the Killer Duke—never to touch another woman without seeing trepidation in her gaze?
Or had Mara simply used him?