His Wicked Seduction novel Chapter 37

Horatia hated how that memory always managed to choke her at the worst times. She blinked and turned at the sound of a polite cough. Lucien was leaning against the wall a few feet away, watching her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, pushing away from the wall and coming towards her.

"I'm fine."

Lucien frowned and cupped her chin in one hand, turning her to face him.

"I can always tell when you lie," he said, as if the knowledge of this surprised him.

"Yes. I hate that." She needed to get away from him. She needed room to breathe.

He dogged her steps as she left and picked a room at random to try and hide from him. She shut the door and slid the lock into place, relaxing when he tried the knob and couldn't get inside. Leaning back against the door, she listened to him walk away. Her heartbeat slowed in her chest.

Suddenly one of the study bookshelves swung open. Lucien emerged and eased the bookshelf back into its place, grinning. Horatia gaped. Rochester Hall had secret passageways? How had she not known about them? She truly ought to have been nosier as a child.

"Why do you hate that I can read you so easily?" he asked.

Horatia studied the room with a slight frown. This was Lucien's study. His scent filled the air and a messy pile of letters littered his large desk. She couldn't have picked a worse room to try and escape from him. He was everywhere. And she would not be able to hide from him anywhere on the estate. There were likely passageways all through the house connecting all the rooms.

"Lucien, could you please just leave me alone? You've made your peace with me, and I with you. Can we not leave it at that?" She turned her back to him but he chuckled, coming closer.

"My dear Horatia, I fear you and I are England and France. We quarrel and battle and therein lies the pleasure of our relationship." He brushed back a loose curl that had draped over her shoulder. She flinched, though not from displeasure. Even the barest hint of heat from him was something she could not endure for much longer without wanting to turn in his arms and beg for a kiss.

"I am tired of battling with you, Lucien. It has caused me nothing but grief." She moved towards the window behind his desk, looking over the snow covered gardens. The flowers were all withered and sheathed in ice, and it struck her how much she sympathized with those flowers. Her heart felt much the same, withered and frozen. But Lucien wouldn't let her alone. He was right there behind her, warmth emanating off him in sweet waves, heating her back.

"Then I will leave you, but only if you allow me to honor tradition first. I've heard it is bad luck to ignore such things." His breath fanned her neck, sending shivers of anticipation through her. Who would have thought the word tradition could be so seductive? Horatia whirled around to face him, her nose brushing his as she hadn't realized how close he was.

"Tradition?" she asked.

Lucien's eyes flicked up to something over their heads. A sprig of mistletoe, pinned to the wood above the large window.

With a growl of desire he backed her up into the corner between his bookshelves and the wall. He dipped a hand down to her skirts, rucking them up to grip one of her thighs. With a swift stroke he bared her leg and had it wrapped around his hip so he could push closer into the welcoming cradle of her body. Her head fell back, allowing him access to the underside of her chin and her neck. He devoured her skin with kisses like a starving man.

The closeness of their bodies was both startling and enchanting. Horatia lost herself to Lucien's seduction. How could she have ever wanted him to leave her alone? For one single kiss she'd walk through fire, for a heated glance she'd brave her darkest nightmares. All Horatia could think beyond more, more, was that she would do anything for him. Even after all these years that hadn't changed-so how could she have convinced herself otherwise?

Lucien couldn't stop himself. Her hands fisted in his hair and her silken mouth welcomed his tongue with a reckless intensity he'd never experienced from any woman before. He'd had countless lovers and mistresses, but none had so completely abandoned their control as Horatia did. She did not lose herself. She was still Horatia, from the soft brown waves of her chestnut hair to the tips of her blue slippers. But when she kissed him, she threw caution, morals and hesitancy to the wind in a way that had him desperate to possess her.

He'd always prided himself on his own self-control. Of course, lately he seemed to have little of it and Horatia had been testing what remained to its limit. He wanted to sink so deep into her that he'd never leave, wanted to lose himself in her eyes and drown in the symphony of her breathless cries. He'd thought of nothing else the entire carriage ride to Kent. Each time a curl of her hair was jostled by the bumpy road, he'd watched with envy as it caressed the tops of her breasts. When she'd fallen asleep, her lips had softened into a cupid's bow. Usually she kept those lips pursed into a tight line around him. The things he wanted those lips to do made him groan helplessly as he pushed himself even harder against her.

Through the haze of his desire, Lucien was suddenly aware of a voice calling his name, and it wasn't Horatia. It was like a pail of cold water dropped on his head, followed by the pail. It was Cedric, outside the study door.

"Lucien, you devil! Where'd you run off to?" With regret he stepped back from Horatia, holding a finger to his lips to indicate silence.

"Quick, under my desk," Lucien said in a hoarse whisper.