Page 7 of Much Ado About Hating You (Second Chance Season #2)

Six

A nother kiss? She wanted to melt into her answer—yes—and into him. The last few minutes had blown every minute before stepping into the boat with Richard quite out of existence. Had there been other men? Other kisses? Anything outside this tiny, gently rocking world?

Not when his hand at her nape felt so warm.

His breath on her skin so intoxicating.

And her legs between his thick, muscled thighs so very exciting.

Another splash beyond the branches, out in the sunshine where an entire world existed. A world in which she loathed him.

Selena there too. And her broken heart.

Another crack on the shore, like a boot stepping on a stick, the rustle of branches. So many eyes about. Another kiss would change her. It would change everything. On the shore, nothing, no one. Except—there, a flash of clothing, a body appearing from behind a tree, a hat tipped back above a wide grin. The man waved. The man she knew waved.

Daniel Bartlett, scoundrel, seducer, bigamist. The lost Bartlett brother of Slopevale. Here. When he should most certainly not be.

Beatrice moved without thought, her brain a flailing, shrieking mess of quivery pudding. She shoved hard against Richard’s chest, her gaze still locked on the shore as her body rocked backward. The boat rocked, too, oars slipping out of their notches, splashing into the water.

Richard cursed and wrenched his torso over the side of the boat, grabbing at the oar. The world tilted. Beatrice tilted. She lunged toward the opposite side of the boat to balance it out.

Too late. The boat reared up. Beatrice tumbled down. And the water greeted her with chilly arms, pulling her under.

Skirts trapping legs, she kicked, reaching for the surface. She’d not had time to draw in enough air before plunging under. Already her lungs screamed. She opened her eyes. Nothing but murky water, dim sunrays piercing the brown fog. Her lungs screamed when she could not. Her eyes burned. Her brain a spinning top of panic as she reached for the light.

Then manacles wrapped around her waist and yanked her upward. She gasped as her head popped above the water.

“Hold on to the boat,” Richard barked near her ear. His arm like a chain at her waist, holding her up, saving her. He’d not abandoned her to a watery grave. She clung to his neck, sucked in air on gasps. He held her more tightly, his legs working hard under the surface to keep them both afloat. “Shh. I’ve got you, Bea. I’ve got you. Hold on to the boat, love. Shh. Right here.” He unclenched one of her arms from around his neck and placed it on the bottom of the boat now turned up to the sky. “See how you can grasp right here?”

She nodded, shivering.

“Good. Now hold tight. I’m going to let you go.”

“No!” Water was so very vast, so final. A person could be lost there, never found. The water had always wanted to hide her body, to make her as unseen as she felt. “No. Please, no.”

“Yes.” His voice so very calm. “But only to pull the boat—and you—toward the shore. Hold tight, and you’ll be fine. And if you accidentally let go, just yelp for me. I’ll come.”

Water streamed in rivulets down his face, his mouth a grim line. In his eyes, the truth—he would come if she yelped. He’d dive all the way to the bottom if she called his name. She trusted him. No matter anything else that had passed between them, she trusted him now. When it mattered most.

She grasped the boat, releasing him, and he swam away from her to the back of the boat, hooked an arm beneath it, and began to kick, the bottoms of his boots flashing upward.

His boots. If her skirts were bricks, his boots must be worse. But he kicked anyway, kept her afloat, pulled her toward safety. He could have swum to shore himself, saved his own hide, and let her drown. But he’d not abandoned her to that fate. He’d stayed by her side, refusing to let her slip into watery oblivion.

Holding tight to the side of the boat, she kicked, too, trying her best to guide it toward the shore, and when the capsized craft picked up speed, he looked over his shoulder at her, gave a grim nod.

Together, they maneuvered to the shore, then he was standing waist-deep in water, holding out a hand, and she was letting him pull her onto dry land. Then, together, they collapsed in a heap, side by side in the grass beneath the trees.

Above the branches, the clouds floated fluffy, unaffected. Beside her, a man panted. Inside her chest, her heart twisted and twisted. And from all sides, voices made themselves known.

“Beatrice, are you hurt?” Richard demanded softly, voice ragged.

“No. But I’m a pudding.” She inhaled deeply, coughed.

He rolled onto his side, the width of his body blocking her in, his face peering down, wrinkled and worried. “What happened?”

“I’m a blasted pudding in a crisis, aren’t I?”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

She pushed upright, waving the concern away. Better to forget about the kiss. “I saw Daniel.”

“Daniel? Who are you talking about?”

“Your brother Daniel!”

His face paled. “You didn’t. He’s not even in England. He’s oceans away. He’s?—”

“Here. I saw him. He waved at me.” She looked about. “He’s gone now.”

“That’s not funny, Beatrice.” He jumped to his feet, tugged the tail of his shirt out of the band of his trousers and twisted it, wringing out the excess water.

She jumped to her feet, wringing out her skirts. “I’m not making a joke!”

He stomped off.

Beatrice stomped after him, skirts clinging to her legs. She was too angry to care. All the way to the stables, past them, to a cottage near the woods. He swung the door open and disappeared inside. Beatrice followed, catching the door before he slammed it shut and taking the privilege of that action herself. The door banged, shook the walls, and Beatrice stood firm.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, untying and ripping off his cravat. He dropped it to the dirt floor of what appeared to be a dim and dusty woodworker’s shop. She saw not much more than that, her gaze fixated on the strong length of his neck. He pointed toward the door. “Get out. You cannot be here”—he choked, eyes wide and scouring the length of her body—“like that.” He jerked his head back to stare at the ceiling.

She looked down to see what he avoided. Nipples hard beneath soaked muslin, the exact shape of her hips and legs outlined. Every inch of her revealed. She cursed, wrapping her arms across her breasts. “I am not wrong.” She might be? Because what was Daniel doing here? “Or joking. But… but outside of whatever I saw or didn’t see, you kissed me. Again . You cannot deny that , can you!”

With his head tilted back, she could clearly see the way his swallow worked the muscles of his throat. “You kissed me back. And you followed me here. Where we are alone. And secluded.”

“What are you saying?”

He lowered his face, wearing a wolfy grin. “You liked my kisses, Beatrice Bell. You want more of them.”

“Ha! Clearly you like kissing me . Or you would not have done it. Twice .”

“I will never do it again.” He inched closer.

“I would not welcome a third offense.” She inched closer, too, each step driven by anger and lust and the desire to beat him at this game, at every game.

“Oh, of course not.” He smirked. “You’d end it right away. Likely slap me, too.”

“Certainly. I should love to feel your cheek beneath my palm. Again.” Taut and stubbled, rough and warm. Her heart exploded into a rain patter of racing beats.

He forced a short exhale through his nose. “If I kissed you right now, you’d make it last .”

“You clearly wish to be slapped.”

They were toe-to-toe now, somehow having moved even closer as they traded verbal blows.

“Shall we test that theory?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly. He cupped the back of her neck. His hands were so big, wrapping round the sides of her throat, holding her gently as his gaze homed in on her lips like a sailor’s on the North Star.

She grasped the front of his shirt just above his waistcoat and yanked him closer, their lips almost touching now, their rapid breaths sizzling a dangerously lean space between their bodies. “I cannot wait to prove you wrong.”

His lips slanted across hers before she’d even finished speaking. No gentle, lake-rocking kiss, this. An enraged inferno fanned by wild winds.

She would pull away. Now.

She clutched the sodden mass of his shirt more tightly, tugged him closer until their chests touched. Hard to soft but hearts beating to the same unsatisfied, needy rhythm.

Now she would release him. Prove him wrong. End the kiss and imprint her palm hard and fast across his cheek.

Hard and fast, she crashed her hips against him, needing those bits of herself still untouched by his fire… consumed.

She would end the kiss.

“Still kissing me, Bea,” he whispered against her lips.

“ You are still kissing me .”

His hands bracketing her head, her fingers tangled in his shirt, they stood nose to nose, gasping breath to gasping breath.

“You think I’ll stop first?” he rasped.

“It won’t be me who stops.” When had this become a challenge, a duel? Last man or woman left kissing won.

Lost?

Didn’t matter. He was rubbing his thumb gently along her lower lip, gaze hazy. When he kissed her this time, he parted her lips, slipped his tongue into her mouth. She could feel and taste and smell the man, every inch of him a heady, exhilarating challenge. She would not run from it. She tangled her tongue with his, imitating the stroking motion he’d done to her.

He moaned, and the sound made all that had been dark light. She’d been making this man scowl and snap for so long. What she’d really wanted to do all that time was make him moan.

She deepened the kiss and trailed her fingers down his chest. No longer holding him captive. But he didn’t bolt away. He rocked closer, as if he wanted whatever bands she chose to put around him, and moaned once more when she flattened her palms against his hard abdomen.

Victory.

“Will you stop now?” she asked, afraid, so very terrified of what she wanted his answer to be.

“Never.”

Relief flowed through her. “Stubborn man.”

“As a damn mule, Beatrice. Will you stop, concede, retreat, surrender?”

“Ha!”

“That’s my Beatrice.” He smiled into the next kiss he took.

Or did she give this kiss, eagerly?

His fingers dug into her waist right above her hips. Hot. So hot across every inch of her skin. Her body would surely sizzle dry her wet clothing. She threw her head back, her breasts aching, and he licked a line down her throat, peppered that line with kisses.

His hand squeezed her arse.

“Oh!”

He chuckled. “Will you run now, Bea?”

“Never.” To prove she could not be cowed, she kissed him, a clash of teeth and curses and grasping for one another.

“Hell,” he hissed, lifting away from her. Not too far. Just enough to look down at her, to show her every violent emotion passing through him. His cheek twitched, and then his hand shot out, grasped her own hand, and moved it between their bodies. He placed her right where her belly pressed against him. He held her palm against his shaft.

Long and hard, and she knew what that meant. She had aroused him as he’d aroused her. Seemed hardly possible.

“Will you run now?” he ground out, eyes slamming closed as if the feel of her hand on him was near torture.

Good. She wanted to torture him. She squeezed. He cursed.

“No, Richard Clark,” she said, “I will not stop. I play to win.” She took his free hand. Placed it on her breast.

“Beatrice, you unknowable hellcat.” Each word rushed together as he dropped his face into the crook of her neck and bit her. Gently. A nip as his hand massaged her breast, as his thumb sought out her nipple and thrummed over it, circled it. “Give up, she-devil?”

“I’ll give up when you do.”

His lips wandered lower, and he scattered kisses along the bared tops of her breasts, still wet but drying quickly from the heat of their bodies. His lips wandered even lower, dragging across the soaked muslin. Then his teeth closed around her pebbled nipple, and he sucked. And she cried out, tangling her hands in his hair as the aching between her legs boiled to an exquisite crisis. She bucked her hips against his shaft and whispered his name.

He lifted his head, all challenge gone. Nothing in his gaze but… awe? Hungry need? “You need release, hellcat. Are you close?”

She bit her lip, moaned.

“Are you close?” he repeated, sucking at her breast once more.

Another moan slipped through. No controlling them.

“You are.” He shifted, slipping his leg between hers. He rubbed his thigh into the aching center of her. It felt so damn good, and when his hand spread low across her belly, and his fingers raked into the layers covering her cunny, she almost cried from the painful pleasure of it. He’d found that small bit of her that pulsed the most and teased it. So good. So right.

“More?” he growled.

“More!” She ground her center against his hard thigh.

“More?” His whisper hot on the shell of her ear.

“Yes, please. Oh, yes.” The words barely audible.

“ Please ? From Beatrice Bell? Might be the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. No need to beg, hellcat. I can’t say no.”

If please had turned him inside out, his words did the same to her.

I can’t say no.

Everyone had always been able to say no to her.

But not this man. Her nemesis. The bane of her existence. Her equal in anger and cutting cunning.

He, somehow, could not say no , and as he told her yes with kisses down her neck and clever fingers rubbing perfect pleasure between her legs, she broke into a million tiny pieces of light.

She held him tight as her body shook, wave after wave of indescribable sensation rocking through her.

His hand in her hair at her nape pulled her face away from his chest. His eyes ravaged her, devoured her. “Don’t look away.”

As if she would. Her final stand. Her final victory against him—to take this pleasure for her own without hesitation.

On a groan, he curved around her, lifting his knee hard against her quivering center. When she cried out, he said in a husky whisper near her ear, “I will never see a more exquisite sight than your body wrapped around mine, than your mouth slack from the pleasure I gave you. I will never witness a miracle more divine than you .”

Nonsense. She shook her head. As much as she could, her muscles barely capable of functioning.

He caught her chin, kissing her hard as his hips bucked, grinding his shaft against her hand, slow at first then faster. She didn’t dare move her hand, didn’t want to, then he moaned her name and shuddered, eyes closing fast as he rolled against her hand a final time with a muttered curse. He held her body up, held both of them up. Or rather, they kept each other standing, leaning toward one another, the melting angles of their bodies their only foundation.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He kissed her gently, sipping from her, languid and lovely. “Can’t remember the last time I lost control like that.” A huff of a laugh. “Of course it would be with you.”

She should take offense. She possessed no energy to do so. Better to be limp in his arms, head resting against his shoulder as her heart calmed and feeling returned to her legs.

Sometime later, his deep sigh ruffling the hair by her ear, he said, “It’s time for you to leave. No shaking your head.”

Was she shaking her head? Oh, she was. She stopped.

“When we leave this cottage, I expect you’ll go back to cutting barbs and eye rolls, and I’ll return to annoying you as if it’s my life’s mission. But here”—his arm around her waist became a chain she had no wish to escape—“we are possible. So if you’re looking for a lover, hellcat, a man to make you happy , my door is wide open. I’m yours for the taking.” He kissed the warmed, sensitive spot on her neck right below her ear. “Now…” He lowered his leg until she no longer rode his thigh, holding her shoulders to keep her from crumpling to the floor. When he was sure she could stand alone, he left her, returning with a blanket he draped around her shoulders. “It is time for you to leave.”

He opened the door and pushed her through. The last thing she saw before the door closed in her face was Richard Clark, body of a god and mouth of a sinner, mind of demon and… and the man she hated most—his lips swollen from her kisses, his jaw tight, and his eyes… somehow… sad.