Page 37 of The Lady is Trouble
When she didn’t respond, he grasped her arm and pulled her close. “Do you understand?”
“Yes”—she yanked her arm free—“yes.”
He released a fast breath. “Okay.”
It was a simple thing to take the clip from her, the metal warm from her grip. He closed his eyes as the vision tore through him, swift, powerful—and insistent he step inside.
With a harsh entreaty, Piper reached for him, tried to pull him back.
But he was already gone.
The room he entered was cavernous. High ceilings, tapestry-covered walls, hefty furnishings. A masculine chamber. Julian breathed in Frankincense on his first full breath, onerous, cloying. Choking. In one corner, a man huddled over an immense roundtable stately enough to have been Arthur’s. Books were stacked on every surface, volumes discarded topsy-turvy on the floor. The man turned pages rapidly, searching with an urgency born of terror. Julian felt the fear, pulsing as intensely as the wound on his shoulder. He moved closer, his gaze locking on a signet ring on the man’s pinky. A ruby centered on the crest of a lion with bared teeth.
The Duke of Ashcroft wore just such a ring, Julian recalled and curled his fingers around the money clip. If he could just get a good look at the man’s face. Piper shouted to him, beseeching. Along the narrow tunnel of his vision, he saw her, ghostly, an apparition.
“Go back,” he screamed, but no sound traveled from his lips.
Julian watched in fascination as the man held out his hand, a tiny flame flickering to life a digit above his open palm. It wavered like flames caught in the wind, then ruptured with a wondrous, sparking burst.
Against his will and with it, Julian stepped closer, entranced, mesmerized.
Piper ripped the money clip from Julian’s hand and tossed it aside. His eyes fluttered as the hint of an odd fragrance filtered to her, then he broke their connection, shoving her from the otherworld.
A tear traced her cheek, sorrow she scrubbed away. He wasn’t denying her that effortlessly.
Leaning over him, Piper cupped his jaw, a touch as gentle as if he were made of glass. The abrasion from his unshaven skin sent a dizzying rush through her, reminding her what she risked by touching him in this way.
He was not hers to caress, to want, tolove.
But he was hers to protect.
His heat seared at each touchpoint where skin met skin, the slide of air from his parted lips a tantalizing sweep across her cheek. She fought a cascade of emotion, none stronger than yearning long contained. “Come back to me,” she whispered, running her thumb along his whiskered jaw. “Come back, Jules.”
Frantic as the silence drew out, she tilted his head and pressed her mouth to his. Her entire focus centered on him as their long-ago kiss roared through her mind. Potent, sweet memory. She recalled how Julian had touched her in exceptional detail, however brief, and the extreme pleasure born of his touch. Having little experience to draw on, she mimicked what she remembered, placing her tongue at the corner of his mouth, tracing the seam, moving her lips over his, begging for entrance.
Begging him to return to her.
He grasped her shoulders, his lids lifting to reveal irises gone so dusky they edged to black. His aura radiated molten gold, as if she stared directly into a sun blistering her to her core. The wound on his shoulder had bled through the bandage and left a crimson trail down his arm.
Her heart broke, doomed with love.
“If this is how you’re healing others, Yank, I have to object.”
Somehow, she found the courage to ask: “Are you going to object now?”
His gaze lowered to her breasts, straining with each urgent breath against the bodice of her gown. Then he murmured one word—no—threaded his hand through her hair and brought her to him. She fell, a mad tumble, but he knew how to find the perfect fit. A skillful roll and he was atop her, pinning her in place. His other hand went to her cheek to still her movement as his lips covered hers—a rough invasion.
No gentle foray, no polite request, his need rolled over her as powerfully as a wave over the shore, ripping her feet from beneath her and plunging her into a chaotic, sensual sea. She accepted his challenge, opening like a flower beneath him. He tasted of mint and tea and felt like the answer to a prayer.
To deny him never occurred to her—and if it had—she would have rejected the offer.
With a throaty sound of pleasure, he settled between her legs, which with no hesitation, sprawled wide to give him better access. He adjusted his body, a subtle hip shift, once more, then, oh, yes,there. Her nipples instantly peaked, scraping against fabric, so pleasurably sensitive she sighed as the air left her lungs and entered his mouth in a sharp burst.
Desire poured through her; ablaze, covetous, she seized each new sensation. “Jules,” she gasped, her head falling back. “More.”
In impatient fistfuls, he yanked her skirt high as he found her lips, bringing her back into the kiss. Their bodies melded beautifully, naturally, pelvis to pelvis, each peek met with a contrasting valley, hot flesh separated only by thin, damp layers.
Unlike their sweet encounter long ago, this was a frantic, eroticbattle. His tongue engaging, delving until she had no choice but to match his rhythm. She arched into him, the swollen weight of his shaft pressing against her thigh. She should have been repelled, when instead, she realized a wild urge to grasp his solid length, memorize each single, stiff inch of him.