“For the love of God, why?”
“Because this is something I’ve wanted for the longest time.”
She stretched her arms around him, placing her hands flat on his back, and leaned forward until her cheek settled against his galloping heartbeat. And then she squeezed him tight.
“Relax, Rafe. It’s only a hug.” She nuzzled into his shirtfront, settling in. “When’s the last time you had a proper one?”
“I . . .” He exhaled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I can’t even recall.”
Neither could Clio. She’d been born into a loving family, but it was the wrong family for hugs. Daphne was a perfunctory hugger—loose embrace, a few brisk pats on the back, and done. Phoebe didn’t like to be hugged at all.
But there were few things Clio loved more in life than a tight, affectionate embrace. She was good at them, too. She smoothed her palms up and down his back, coaxing the tension from his muscles.
“You could hug me back,” she said.
At last, he surrendered to it, wreathing his strong arms about her waist and resting his chin on her head. His thumb traced comforting circles on her back, and he swayed her gently back and forth.
Oh, sweet mercy. He was an excellent hugger. A true champion.
She didn’t want to ever let go.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” she whispered. “You worked hard to bring all those lovely things from London, and I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin it.”
“Then all that excitement with the dog. I know you were concerned. It’s been a long, difficult day.”
It had been a long, difficult year for him. He’d lost his father and his championship, both within the space of a week.
He could pretend all he liked that he wasn’t grieving. Clio knew better. She remembered the way he’d looked when she called at Granville House shortly after the marquess’s death. His face had worn the marks of a brutal beating, but his eyes showed that his true pain was deep inside. She wished she’d had the courage to hug him then.
Tonight, she was making up for the oversight.
“Why would you think you don’t deserve to be happy, Rafe?”
He paused before answering. “It wouldn’t be in you to understand. I’m bad at being good, and only good at being bad. You don’t know who I am, what I’ve done. You don’t know the half.”
“Perhaps not. But I know what you deserve for your actions today.” Stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. “That’s for the music.”
Ducking her head, she kissed the underside of his jaw, where his pulse beat hard and fast. A day’s growth of whiskers scraped against her skin. “That’s for the flowers.”
“Stop.”
“This is for the cake.”
She pressed her lips to the notch at the base of his throat. Then she held the kiss for long moments, breathing in the scent and heat of him.
A tortured growl rose in his chest. He probably meant it as a warning, but Clio was emboldened by the sound.
She loved knowing she had this effect on him. This was Rafe Brandon, one of the fiercest, strongest, most fearsome men in England. And she, Miss Clio Whitmore, had him weak in the knees.
When she lifted her head, she found him staring down at her. His eyes were hazy with desire. “You need to leave this room. At once.”
Clio didn’t try to argue with him.
But neither did she move to leave.
She sensed a battle going on within him—desire and the simple need for closeness, warring with his ambition and loyalty. It was a true struggle, and as a spectator, she was breathless. Riveted. Tense with anticipation, waiting to see which side would win.
His hands lay flat on the small of her back.
And then . . . slowly . . . she felt his fingers gathering the fabric of her frock, drawing it into tight fists. He flexed his arms and pulled her close, sweeping her heels off the floor. Her breasts crushed against the solid wall of his chest, and a ridge of pure male heat pulsed against her belly.
His breathing was rough. His lips, so close to hers.