Page 35 of Road Trip With a Rogue

She wanted him, though. Even if she didn’t want to. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so bloody frustrating. If his entire body didn’t ache with the need to touch her. Possess her.

He’d reimagined that night five years ago a million times. Wished he’d kept on kissing her, ignoring everything except the ravenous urge to take what he’d been craving for so long. He could have had her right there, on the desk in his study, binding them together in an explosion of passion and heat.

Hewould have been her first. It would have been hot and fast and fucking incredible, but it wouldn’t have been the gentle introduction to lovemaking she deserved. It would have been a mistake.

A glorious, terrible mistake.

He’d been about to leave for war. He’d had no interest in settling down, no desire for any emotional entanglements, but he would have felt honor-bound to offer forher in case she fell pregnant. She’d probably have refused him, stubborn hellion that she was, but still. The whole situation had been untenable.

Lucien raked his hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders to release the tension. She’d refused him tonight, but he’d planted the idea in her brain. Provided they were discreet, there was no reason why they couldn’t explore the ridiculous attraction between them now, and he could only pray that she’d see the logic of his argument before they both went mad from frustrated desire.

Unfortunately, logic and Daisy Hamilton were only distant acquaintances.

She didn’t stir as he banked the fire and carefully stretched out beside her on the mattress—on top of the covers, as she’d demanded. A faint smile touched his lips. After tonight he could say with perfect honesty that he’d spent the night with her, and there wasn’t a soul in London who’d believe he’d kept his hands off her.

He wouldn’t tell anyone, of course. But teasing her about it would give him an unreasonable amount of pleasure.

The bed was an ancient four-poster, and he stared up at the gathered fabric above his head, willing his body to calm. Daisy moved, her spine pressing up against his side, and it took all his willpower not to roll over and tug her into the curve of his body. She would fit perfectly in his arms.

Damn it.

With a huff, he turned away from her so they were back-to-back. Considering the amount of blood still in his cock, it was a miracle his brain was still functioning at all, but he closed his eyes and willed himself to lose consciousness.

Chapter Seventeen

Daisy groaned as a clatter from the innyard interrupted a most delicious dream. Her body was warm, tingling with suppressed energy, and it took her several seconds to realize where she was.

In Vaughan’s embrace.

She stilled, hardly daring to breathe, as she catalogued the unfortunate situation. He was still above the covers, thank God, but his heavy arm was slung over her waist and her bottom was snuggled intimately in his lap. The hard ridge of his morning erection was nestled against her bottom as if it belonged there, and she resisted the wicked urge to rub herself against him.

His breathing was deep and even; every inhalation pressed his chest against her spine. She was sure he was still asleep.

Her head was tucked under his chin, and the scent of him filled her brain and made her think terrible, wicked thoughts. If she pretended to still be asleep, she could roll over and press her nose to the bare skin of his throat where his shirt lay open. She could raise her chin so her mouth brushed his.

He’d kiss her back. Even half asleep, he’d kiss her. And then he’d wake fully and roll her over and press her down and his hands would be in her hair and—

No.That would be underhanded. She was no coward. If she wanted him, she would be honest about it, not pretend she was dazed and half conscious.

And now was not the time. She had a job to do. A runaway heiress to catch.

But God, it was tempting to stay.

It was clear they’d ended up in this position unconsciously; his body was merely reacting to a female form, not her specifically, but he’d broken his promise not to stay on his side of the bed.

A wicked smile curved her lips. She’d show him.

She slid her right hand slowly beneath her pillow until her fingers closed around the familiar hilt of her knife, then stretched languidly as if trying to get more comfortable. It was hard to move with Vaughan’s arm pinning her down, and his lax hand brushed dangerously close to her breast as she turned over to face him.

She held her breath as he stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing even as she angled her blade so the edge of it touched the skin of his throat.

A surge of unholy elation filled her as his eyes snapped open.

“Good morning,” she purred.

His pupils flared as he stared down at her, and she bit her lip against the urge to laugh.

“Good morning yourself.” His deep timbre rumbled against her chest and made her blood sing. “You had a knife under your pillow.”