Holy God. There was rock-hard, there was hard-as-steel, and then there was the solidity of Rafe’s current erection—which so thoroughly surpassed all his previous experience, he suspected it might be of interest to science.
He considered closing his eyes, sticking his fingers in his ears, and chanting Broughton’s rules at the top of his voice until either she went away or morning dawned. But one look at the stubborn set of her chin, and he knew it was no use. She was determined enough to wait him out.
She was too accomplished at patience, this woman. And that was his idiot brother’s fault.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “I imagined myself to be Sleeping Beauty. Promised in my cradle to marry . . . well, not a prince, but something close. I was surrounded by well-meaning relations, showered with gifts. Wealth, good breeding, education. Even a castle.”
She hugged her knees and stared at the banked fire. “And right around my seventeenth birthday, I went to sleep. There wasn’t any spindle to prick my finger. But I fell asleep just the same, and I stayed that way for eight long years.”
Firelight played over her face, caressing her cheek with more tenderness than a brute like Rafe could ever muster.
“All around me, my friends were marrying, traveling, having children, and making their own homes. Not me. I was still asleep in that tower. Still waiting on my prince to come home and kiss me, so I could wake.
“Then one day . . . I decided to give myself a good pinch and wake up. The prince wasn’t coming for me. And maybe—just maybe—I didn’t need him, anyway. I’d been given so many gifts. An education, a fortune, a castle. Who was to say that simply because I was female, I couldn’t make something of those gifts myself?” She looked at Rafe. “Then came you.”
“I’m no kind of prince.”
“No, you’re not. You’re wild and rebellious and rough-mannered. But you kissed me in a tower. You brought me every flower in the hothouse. You gave me an entire roomful of cake. You swept me off my feet.” She rested her chin on her knees and regarded him. “And tonight, you remembered what I wore to my come-out ball when I was seventeen years old. Down to the pearls studded in my hair.”
Rafe’s pulse stuttered to a halt. His mouth dried. “No. That wasn’t me. I told you, that was Piers.”
“You’re such a terrible liar.” Her eyes shot him a lash-fringed accusation. “I thought you didn’t come to my debut. But you were there. You must have been.”
“I was there,” he admitted. “But I didn’t stay for long. I left almost as soon as I arrived.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t stand to be there another moment. I’ve told you how it was. I fancied you then, and you know how I always envied Piers. That night was . . . It was torture. I hated what they’d done to you. The whole purpose of the evening was to wrap you up like the world’s shiniest birthday gift and present you to Piers for his approval.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “It made me want to hit things. So I went out and found something to hit.”
“I don’t blame you for leaving.” She touched his shoulder. “I wanted to escape, too.”
Her words set alarms ringing through his brain, but he was lost for a response. Rendered speechless by the sensation of her fingertips caressing his bare skin. He’d wanted her for so damned long. She was so beautiful. So beautiful, and so here. With him.
With him.
The wrong man. The worst man.
“Clio . . .” His voice was strangled.
“Hush.” She rose onto her knees and closed the distance between them. “Just stop fighting and let something wonderful happen.”
And something wonderful did happen.
She tilted her head, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his.
Sweet heaven.
He’d kissed her several times now, and each kiss had been better than the last. But being kissed by Clio? This was new, uncharted territory.
Rafe thought it just might be Paradise.