Page 33 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

G raham changed out of his evening attire. There was no point wearing it now. His thoughts were churning with the events of their carriage ride, the things he’d revealed to her and what she shared in return.

“You’re not gray, Graham. You’ve got colors of your own. They may not be the same shades as mine, but you’re still beautiful.”

Her compliment had crushed his resolve to resist her. He’d had women whisper endearments to him, calling him handsome, virile, but none had ever resonated like Amelia’s words. It had undone him.

That night at her ball he’d been ambushed by his own swell of attraction and then the swift drop of knowing he was too drab in comparison to a woman like her. She sparkled, and he was a matte shade of brown. All his life he’d been called many things—strong, intelligent, steady, loyal—but none of those things were exciting draws for women. Least of all one who outshone the rest with her dazzling eyes and the kind of laughter that sounded both joyous and wicked at the same time.

She was strong and brave, stubborn but valiant, and intelligent—when she slowed down enough to think things through. She fought for what she loved and what she believed in. But she didn’t know or understand this side of desire. She didn’t know how easy it was to confuse these feelings for something more than they were, for infatuation to become obsession. That was what she was becoming to him. An addiction. The further he fell, the more he knew his heart would not survive the break when he finally hit the ground. He left his room, still agitated and aroused, and his emotions were held on a short leash when she appeared on the landing.

“Graham?” she said, her eyes heavy with uncertainty. “You’re upset with me. Do you regret what you said? What we did?”

The carriage ride had revealed too much. He was raw and exposed like a nerve, and the hurt in her voice clawed at his insides. He stalked toward her, and she backed up against the wall. His heart beat so loudly that it was all he could hear.

Her eyes widened in bewilderment. Could she see it now? Did she finally see him as a man who, until now, had buried the emotions he’d felt for her behind a mask of indifference and disdain.

He’d been suffering for so long he could no longer be that civilized man. He’d made himself cold, rigid—like a statue, a block of ice next to her flame. But he’d gotten too close, and now he was melting away, his heart exposed. She thought she’d been in a cage, but he’d been chained to a dungeon wall by his own hand. Tortured by her smile, her scent, and the sharp wit she threw at him like knives.

Now that he’d kissed her, tasted her, and heard the soft sighs and clipped moans of her release, there was no going back to how things had been. There was no more pretending to himself where she was concerned. He was certain now.

“Amelia, you mean more to me than I have words to articulate. I’m not a poetic man, and for that, I’m sorry. I cannot adequately describe what you make me feel. Other than... everything. You make me feel everything.”

“Graham,” she whispered, “what are you saying?”

He wanted her, needed her, and he would die for her if she would only let him be her protector, her lover, her husband until his final breath. That’s what he wanted to say. But he could not utter the words that would alter their lives forever. Though it already belonged to her, he could not open his heart to her because she did not feel the same. She saw marriage as just another cage. She’d made that clear time and again. To her, this was temporary. He was only a safe diversion that brought her comfort and pleasure. He would not lay his soul so bare now only to force her to reject him again. He would not survive it.

So instead, Graham took her lips in one last searing kiss. Her mouth opened under his, their tongues searching for each other, their moans colliding on their breaths. Their fingers laced together at their sides, and Graham raised her arms until he had her pinned to the wall. Her body bowed into his, and all the blood rushing from his brain left an echoing whirring sound in his ears.

He pulled back, and she whimpered as he reluctantly let go.

“Graham . . .”

“I have to go.”

She’d broken the chains of his control, and now he was free. However, his freedom didn’t guarantee her heart, and he would not settle for less. The control he found now—control that had eluded him in the carriage—was born of his own increasing pain. It was the sort of sharp, head-clearing anguish that would help him walk away.

“Aren’t you going to see Sam?”

“I’ll go and say goodbye. I shouldn’t be staying here any longer.”

She reached for him, but he stepped back, and she said, “Don’t do this. Don’t leave now after all that... I need you here. I can’t do this without you.”

His head hung. “I can’t be this close to you and not have you.”

“You can have me.”

“No, I mean to have you and to keep you, and you don’t want that. You don’t want to lose the freedom of self-determination you’ve fought to protect, and I understand it. But I can’t deal in half-measures any longer, and I can’t stay away from you if we’re under a shared roof.” He could not look at her. He’d break.

She dropped her hands and turned, flying down the stairs. He gripped the railing. The urge to follow her had him rooting his feet to the floor until the feeling passed. Then he marched to Alston’s room, intent on saying goodbye to his friend and putting the distance that was necessary between them.