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Lesson Six:

Going after a vexed rake on his own turf? Daring.

J uliet’s gothic characters were courageous, but she wasn’t.

She’d let Dorian go years ago—pushed him away out of some misguided allegiance to society’s class structure. Pride over her age, too, she supposed, as if being two years older than him had made a bloody bit of difference.

At the time, though, it had.

She’d thought to save him from ruin, over a scandal no worse than the sort young men found themselves entangled in all the time.

Only later did she realize the real ruin came from living apart.

Since she wasn’t a cunning strategist and had no hidden agenda, Juliet figured the best way to keep Dorian from storming off in another rage was to rely on her sensual powers of persuasion.

Once he was thoroughly pleasured and pliant as clay in a sculptor’s hands, she could talk some sense into him.

Their hunger for each other hadn’t waned, and neither had her memory of what he liked.

Truthfully, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him.

Which was how she found herself in his bedchamber after midnight, wearing one of his linen shirts that skimmed her mid-thigh, with her gown—and every layer beneath it—neatly tucked away in the wardrobe across the room. She wanted him to forget their quarrel the moment he stepped inside.

Less clothing struck her as a shrewd strategy.

Grinning, she ran her hand down the line of bone buttons on his shirt, her stomach quivering in anticipation. She’d been wonderfully intrepid today. Amazing, really, what a little bribery could accomplish with the domestic staff when one was trying to access a private home.

Though she suspected this sort of thing had happened before. Dorian’s second footman had winked at his scullery maid—Juliet’s first two payoffs—and laughed as if to say, Oh, this again .

But that was the past , she decided, as she toured the chamber in search of more hidden details about the man she loved.

She’d already discovered that Dorian favored the novels of Sir Walter Scott, kept a collection of coins in a dented metal box in the top drawer of his escritoire, and, heartbreakingly, had tucked away her old hairclip and a note she’d once written, asking to meet in their cottage, in his valet box.

Ten more minutes of snooping, then she would crawl into his massive mahogany tester bed and arrange herself in a suitably seductive pose.

However, her conquest didn’t unfold quite as planned.

“Antique cufflinks. My grandfather’s. Anthony was always vexed he gave them to me instead of the heir.”

Nonsensically, Juliet shoved her hands behind her back before she turned to face Dorian, as if she could somehow hide her spying.

He halted in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with a wicked smile.

His clothes were damp from travel, as were his hair and face—a fine sheen that shimmered in the oil lamp’s glow.

He’d shed his coat, and his cheeks were flushed.

If she had to guess, she’d say he’d run to her. Just as she’d run to him.

His gaze drifted from her bare feet to the hair tumbling past her shoulders. The hand braced on the door curled into a fist as his lips parted, releasing a tight breath. “Find what you’re looking for?” he asked at last, his voice ragged.

She glanced down, embarrassed suddenly, now that the moment was upon her.

He crossed the chamber, his hand cradling her jaw, tilting her lips to his. “Take what you want, Jules,” he whispered, then leaned in to kiss her. “Because I plan to.”

She’d imagined something tender for their first time in years.

But if she’d paused to review her memories, she’d have found them filled not only with sweetness—but with want, need, hunger . Remembering, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed against him, nudging him back.

One step closer to the bed.

“After this, we talk,” he said against her lips, the promise a fiery burst across her skin.

Then he groaned softly, lids fluttering, stealing the view of his sapphire eyes. Impatient, he slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue drawing hers into battle, the very air around them seemed to ignite, her body going with it.

He walked her back until her thighs hit the bed, then gave her a gentle push that sent her spilling onto the mattress. Laughing, she shook her hair from her face and looked up at him—only for her amusement to fade at the intensity in his gaze.

And the fact that he was starting to undress.

“I stroll into my bedchamber to find you in my shirt and nothing else,” he whispered, the words so faint she had to struggle to hear them.

Yanking his cravat free, he dropped the silken strip to the floor.

His waistcoat soon followed. Fisting his fingers around the neck of his shirt, he pulled it over his head and let it flutter to the floor.

“You’re bloody beautiful, Jules, and I want you more than I’ve wanted another thing in my life.

Nothing’s changed. Apologies now for my greediness with regard to this obsession. ”

Propped on one elbow, she watched him undress, taking in the changes time had wrought.

More muscle in his shoulders and forearms. A fading scar along his hip. That dazzling line of hair trailing from chest to belly perhaps a shade darker now, thicker than before. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch, her need nearly overwhelming.

He worked the buttons of his trousers with an unsteady hand. “The way you look at me,” he murmured, “I’ve never felt so singed.”

Sitting up, Juliet followed his lead, unfastening his shirt one slow button-pull at a time.

She let it fall open, her body revealed to him as his lips parted, a muted sigh escaping—soft but echoing through the room. “I’m going to tear into you, darling Jules,” he said, voice rough. “An absolute fury.”

Her breath caught as he stripped off his trousers and drawers, then climbed onto the bed and over her without another word.

She’d missed every glorious inch of him.

One startling discovery she made as Dorian lowered his body to hers—nudging her thighs apart and aligning his hips with hers in one fluid motion—was that past association brought swifter results.

Unclothed and desperate, they dissolved into one being.

Fingers tangled in hair, fevered breaths struck skin, the bump and grind of two bodies seeking release.

Leaving a reckless kiss behind, he closed his lips around her nipple with a moan, pleasure vibrating in his throat. She was caught in his web again, gladly. His muscles flexed and tensed beneath her roving touch, her impossible need to uncover everything about him in seconds.

When she circled his cock and began to stroke, he dropped his brow to her breast and released a hot sigh against it.

“I change my declaration,” he whispered, kissing his way across her chest. “After this, quick, I fear, I’m going to taste you before we go again.

Have you cry out. Have you beg .” Fitting her other nipple between his teeth, he bit down lightly. “Then, we talk.”

The sensual dance that followed was theirs and theirs alone. Wild kisses, emboldened caresses, bodies aligned in fluid motion. With her murmured approval, he trapped her arm against the mattress and began a gradual, delicious glide inside her. Short, controlled strokes when she wanted more.

Laughing on a ragged gasp, he said, “If I go faster, darling, I’ll be lost.”

“Be lost,” she whispered, gripping his shoulder with her free hand, tunneling her fingers in his hair and bringing his lips to hers. “Be lost now .”

So he did—and they were.

In each other, in love.

Hip to hip, with no further way to claim her, or she him, he halted. “Look at me, Jules.”

Curving into his body, dazed, she blinked to find his blue gaze gone black in the night.

His hand rose to cradle her cheek, fingertips trembling against her jaw. “You’re mine. I’m yours. Forever. No more farewells.”

“ Forever ,” she agreed, and drew him back.

Time spun out as they pulsed in and around each other—rasping moans, piercing whimpers, the push and pull of two souls seeking pleasure and fulfillment.

Her skin prickled with the awareness of a coming storm, lights flashing behind her lids as he stroked from base to tip and back again, his thrusts growing more urgent.

“I’m close.” She pressed the promise into his skin, clutching him to her.

“Thank God,” he said, his hand sliding between them to find her sex. Circling the swollen nub, in seconds, he stole her release in seconds.

Breathless, she cried out, the sounds of their passion echoed through the chamber, wrapping them in shattered bliss.

“I’m staying,” Dorian whispered at the last second, his shaft pulsing inside her, his arms coming around her to hold her close, a risk they’d never taken in their youth. “And I’m not leaving again.”

They shook and trembled, pleasure coursing through her and into him. A transference, a mystery as old as time, something Juliet understood she was meant to treasure.

Because there would be no more goodbyes. Only this, and the forever that followed.