He considered the ramifications of accepting her challenge, simple as it was.
He could kiss her, potentially causing the fracture of a lifelong bond with Owen.
There was also the risk of exposing his heart only to have it spurned—she likely only toyed with them out of boredom.
Then, as Xenia turned toward him, a playful smile gracing her lips, the decision seemed to make itself.
Simon took a step closer, the scent of her lavender perfume ensnaring him further. His heart thundered in his chest. The pact, once a stalwart guardian of his actions, now felt like chains to be broken.
He hesitated, his gaze meeting Owen’s, an entire conversation communicated in a single glance. He saw something in his friend’s gaze, a challenge perhaps, or maybe just the reflection of his own turmoil.
The air was charged with unspoken tension, and Simon knew he could not—would not—stand idly by while uncertainty remained about who would step forward first. Owen would gloat over being first, and Simon loathed to hear it.
With a quiet resolve, Simon closed the distance between himself and Xenia, every step measured and resolute.
“Xenia, come closer.” His hand extended toward her, fingers brushing against hers.
Her skin was warm, soft, and he couldn’t help but imagine touching her more sensitive places.
His fingertips traced her palm before entwining with her fingers, holding onto this connection as if it were a lifeline amidst the storm of his emotions.
He was being ridiculous. This was a mere kiss.
His resolve solidified as he stood before her.
He lifted a hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.
His thumb lingered for a moment too long, drifting across the softness of her cheek, down to trace the full curve of her lips.
She was a vision of loveliness, with eyes that shimmered like the deepest pools of the river beside them.
“Your eyes are the stars of the night sky—limitless and bright.” Simon realized the words sounded like something a schoolboy might say, but he couldn’t take it back now.
With a tenderness that belied the fervent beating of his heart, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was both an exploration and a promise. His other hand found its way to her waist, pulling her gently closer, unwilling to let even the whisper of a breeze pass between them.
As their lips parted, Simon couldn’t help but bask in the aftermath of that singular touch. Xenia’s chest rose and fell as she breathed hard, the luscious swell of her breasts visible above the neckline of her gown, betraying the effect his kiss had wrought upon her.
A surge of pride swelled within Simon, as cocksure as any rake.
Not only had he kissed Xenia Arbuckle, the woman who haunted his most private thoughts, but it had been a kiss that left her wanting more.
He allowed himself a small, victorious smile, one that only deepened as he noted the flush of her cheeks—a bloom more telling than any words could ever be.
Just as he considered kissing her again, Owen took a step forward. “My turn.”
* * *
Without awaiting a response, Owen gently but firmly pushed Simon aside. There was no malice in the gesture, just a bold assertion of presence. His grin was wide and unabashedly confident, as if he had already been assured victory in whatever competition they had unwittingly entered.
He always won when he and Simon competed, whether in women or sport.
He leaned in close, inhaling the scent of Zee’s soap or powder that surrounded her. “Simon may have been the first, but I can assure you, love, what I’m about to do to you will make his kiss seem a mere whisper against your lips.”
Owen reached for her face. “You’re the prettiest girl in the village, Zee. But you know that.” He traced the line of her jaw with his rough thumb.
“Your beauty outshines the stars themselves.” His methodical kisses began, a soft press to her forehead that spoke of reverence. Slowly, deliberately, his lips moved across her temple, dusting her cheekbones with affectionate pecks that stirred the air between them.
Her eyes fluttered closed under the tender assault. Owen reveled in the anticipation he was building, his heart thrumming. When at last his mouth found hers, it wasn’t just a claiming—it was a celebration, a feast after famine.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis as he kissed her, his lips coaxing, demanding, giving all in one breath-stealing communion.
How long he kissed her he couldn’t say, but it was a potent force that left her panting and flushed with warmth.
As he drew back, his eyes searched hers for a reaction.
A moment of silence hung between them before Xenia’s laughter broke through.
“Good heavens. You two are going to be the ruin of me.” Her hand fluttered to her chest, where her heart beat a frantic pace.
She playfully swatted at Owen’s arm, her touch light but pointed. “Such boldness, Mr. Bishop. I do believe you’ve spent too much time at the forge, thinking you can bend people to your will as easily as iron.”
Turning to Simon, who stood watching with an intensity that could melt that iron Zee mentioned, she wagged a finger. “And you, Viscount Kinnerton, don’t think I didn’t notice the way you took charge of the situation. How very like you.”
Her hand rose, a delicate fan in motion, stirring the air around her flushed cheeks. She glanced from one man to the other, her lips curving into a playful smile. “As for which kiss was superior... well, I must say, you’ve given me quite the dilemma. Both were so... persuasive in your own right.”
Owen watched her, silently urging her to declare a victor. He saw Simon giving her the same pointed glare.
“Excellent kisses, indeed,” she continued, coyly avoiding a direct answer. “But to choose a winner? It’s too close to decide. It seems we’ve reached an impasse, gentlemen.” Her eyes danced with challenge and invitation, suggesting this game was far from over.
* * *
Simon’s jaw clenched, a storm of emotions churning within him as he observed the playful twinkle in Xenia’s eyes.
Though bemusement touched the corners of his mouth, the tightness in his chest betrayed his true feelings.
He admired her spirit, the ease with which she turned their fierce rivalry into a jest, but it gnawed at him—the need to surpass Owen, to be the one who ignited the fire in her eyes.
“Miss Arbuckle,” he began, mocking her formal tone, “your levity in such a moment is endearing.” His words were deliberate, chosen to convey both his vexation and his fondness for her impish charm.
Yet, there was something more—a deep-seated drive that propelled him.
Simon Cooke, Fifth Viscount Kinnerton, was not accustomed to sharing victory.
In matters of sport, wit, or matters of the heart, he always strived to best Owen, to stand unrivaled.
And now, with stakes higher than ever, that need burned brighter, fueled by the alluring glint in Xenia’s gaze.
As if sensing the silent battle raging within him, her lips curved into a mischievous smile. She stepped closer, her proximity reigniting the desire that he fought to keep at bay. “Perhaps then, gentlemen, we shall have to try again.”
Her suggestion hung in the air, a siren’s call that beckoned with the promise of sweet victory and perilous defeat. Simon’s heart pounded with the thrill of the challenge. He could see the same eagerness reflected in Owen’s stance, the anticipation of another chance to claim her favor.
This game could prove very enjoyable.