... Our Lady G— may be winning hearts and minds across the ton, but if there are any that remain closed to her, let her grace in the face of adversity prove her worth! Certainly, it has proven something to Lord L—, this author believes a match may soon be reported in these very pages!

... On to the Duke and Duchess of L —! The pair – still as striking together as they were nearly a decade ago when the Duke professed his love in public and the Duchess refused him – was espied on horseback one morning this week in Hyde Park. No doubt the pair thought it was early enough that a passionate kiss would not be seen, but we, too, are early risers...

The Scandal Sheet, May 5, 1833

She stepped into the room behind him, desperate to contain her nervousness.

There were a half-dozen people in the world who had been inside this room, where she played the role of Chase, where she managed the work of The Fallen Angel, and where she ruled London's darkest corners.

And now she stood here, with a man desperate to know her secrets.

With a man to whom she might find herself confessing all if she was not careful.

She watched him take in her space, his brown eyes narrowing in the bright light as they settled on the large, comfortable chairs she'd had custom-built and upholstered in white velvet, on the plush white carpet that cushioned their feet, on the yards and yards of bookshelves that spanned the fourteen feet from floor to ceiling.

And then his gaze settled on her desk.

He moved toward the wide and wonderful centerpiece of the room, and she watched as his fingers traced its edge, wondering at the touch.

Envious.

She started at the thought. The man made her jealous of furniture.

She rushed to speak, to push back the inane idea and fill the silence. "It was made from wood salvaged from a shipwreck."

His fingers stilled on a dark knot in the wood. "Of course it was," he said, quietly.

She could not help herself. "What does that mean?"

He smiled, but the expression lacked humor. "He honors destruction in whatever way possible."

That wasn't what had drawn her to the desk at all. "I think it is more likely that Chase chose the piece because it is a resurrection from ruin."

He met her gaze. "As you are?"

Exactly as I am.

But she could not tell him that, so she looked away.

"You knew he would not be here," he said.

She considered lying, but could not do so. "I did."

He looked away, frustration and fury on his handsome face. "Then why bring me here? To torture me? To show me my weakness?"

"Your weakness?" He was in no way weak. He was strength personified.

He came toward her. "To show me that even now, even as I stand ready to battle him, he is one ahead of me? To show me that he will always —" He stopped.

She prodded. "Will always what?"

He moved again, pushing her back, stalking her toward the door, which she suddenly regretted closing. "To show me that he will always come first with you, despite the fact that he treats you so poorly."

"He does not treat me poorly."

"Except he does. He does not believe in you. He does not see your worth. How very valuable you are. How very precious you are."

She stilled, and he saw the surprise in her eyes. "You think me precious?"

He met her gaze. Refused to let her look away. "I know you are."

The conversation was dangerous. It made her think of things that could never be. She shook her head, her heart pounding as she pressed against the door and his hands came to the oak surface on either side of her head. "He knows your secrets. And you know his. And you'll protect them forever, even as it destroys you."

He was so close, the words whispered at her ear, sending threat and thrill through her. "It won't destroy me."

"Of course it will," he said. "Your choices are ruining you. This place over freedom. Langley over love. Chase over —"

Me.

She heard the word even as he did not say it.

"I don't," she whispered, her hands coming to his chest, sliding up to the bare skin of his neck, to the strong line of his jaw. She might not be able to have it, but her choice was clear. "I don't."

He was so close, she thought she might die if he didn't do something – if he didn't touch her. If he didn't kiss her. "What, then?" he asked.

"I told you," she said, aching for him, loving the warmth and the breath and the strength in him as she confessed, "I choose you."

"Not forever," he said.

Did he want her forever?

Was he offering it?

Did she want it?

Even if she did, he could not save Caroline.

She met his gaze, wishing she could hide from him in this too-light room. Wishing the truth weren't so clear. Wishing that he was less than what he was – handsome, noble, good. Wishing she did not want him so very much.

Wishing she could have him, nonetheless.

If only wishing made it so.

She shook her head. "Not forever."

He nodded. And she thought she saw something in his eyes, there and gone so quickly that she might not have recognized it if she did not feel it so keenly herself.

Regret.

She rushed to say more, knowing she merely made things worse. "If I could... if I were a different woman... if this were a different life —"

"If I were a different man," he offered, the words somehow both hot and cold.

"No," she said, wanting the truth here. Now. Where it had never been before. "I would never want you a different man."

His lips twisted in a humorless smile. "You should want that. Because as it is... as I am... We are impossible."

"If I did not need the title —"

He cut off her thought. "Where is he?"

She met his gaze. "Nowhere near here."

"When will he return?"

"Not today." She didn't want Chase to return. She wanted this moment, with Duncan, to last forever. Hang the rest of the world.

He slid the fingers of one hand into her hair. "Even if you did not need the title," he said. "I would not marry you."

The words were a blow – one she no doubt deserved. He was angry, furious that she'd brought him here, to Chase's office, but not to Chase. She understood pride well, and he was a man who had more of it than most. But still, the vow echoed through her, and she hated it. Hated that he could so easily resist her. Could so easily discount her.

Hated that he could hurt her so well.

That they could hurt each other.

She could not resist fighting back. "You lie."

He raised a brow and tilted her head back, leaving her lips open for him. "You lie more."

He kissed her then, his hand sliding down the wood to throw the lock as he lifted her high, pressing her into the door, letting her legs wrap high around his waist as he took everything she offered and left her desperate to give him more. To give him everything.

She gasped, her arms wrapping around his neck as he held her off the ground, as though she weighed nothing at all, as though she were a puppet on a string. And perhaps she was. Perhaps he was her puppet master. His hands were everywhere, at her bottom, in her hair, between them, palming her breasts as he pressed into her, promising ease to the parts of her that ached, desperate for him.

She'd never wanted anything the way she wanted this man.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, clenching tight in the blond curls as he released her mouth and slid his lips across her cheek and down her jaw to the lobe of her ear, soft and tremendously sensitive. She gasped, turning her head into the caress as he licked and bit there, at that place about which she'd never really thought.

Her knees went weak, and she was grateful for his firm grip, for the way he held her, strong and without hesitation, as though she weighed nothing at all. He palmed her backside, lifting her higher, pressing deeper, and whispered at her ear. "Here is something that is not a lie; I am going to make you scream your pleasure. You will beg for me to stop, and then, when I do, you will beg for me to start again. You won't know what to do with yourself when I am done with you, because you will not remember your body outside of the pleasure I intend to give you."

The words intended to shock her, and they did. She watched the promise on his lips and closed her eyes against the flood of anticipation they caused deep within her, unable to stop herself from moving against him, thoroughly wanton. She sighed at the feel of him there, between her legs, where she wanted him, repeating the motion, loving the way he pressed against her, bold and unyielding and without apology... and then loving the way he groaned his pleasure at the sensation even more.

He swore, the word dark and full of sin. "You know what you do to me, and you do not care."

She leaned forward and bit his lower lip, pulling him to her for another long, drugging kiss. When they parted, they were both panting their pleasure. She smiled. "I do not care in the slightest."

He lifted her, turned her, carried her across the room, setting her on the edge of the massive desk, running one hand up the outside of her thigh as he talked, the words sending heat and promise through her. "I adore these trousers," he confessed, his large hand exploring the muscles and bones of her leg, curving over her thigh to find the soft, untouched place inside, inching along the fabric there until she wished he would pull the damn things off her and do what his touch promised.

She placed her hands to the desk behind her and leaned back, watching him watch her, watching his touch wash over her. He spoke, his words following his caress. "I am viciously jealous of them, though."

She leaned back, and they both watched his fingers play along the inside seam of the leg. "Why?"

"They are able to touch you here," he said, the words lush and lovely, his fingers at the outside of her knee, teasing up the line of the breeches. "And here," he added, his touch at the inside of her thigh. "And..." He trailed off as he reached the place where her thighs met, and she shifted. He growled at the movement. "That's right," he whispered. "Spread yourself for me."

God forgive her, she did, parting her thighs, affording him access to the place they both wanted him most. He took what she offered, his strong hand cupping the most secret part of her, and she sighed her pleasure at the touch, even as she was desperate for more of him.

"You like that," he said, as though he were discussing a painting. A meal. A walk in the park.

"I do," she said, not taking her gaze from that hand, from the place where he held her, firm and with an unbearable promise. "God help me, I do."

"He won't help you," Duncan said, his other hand coming to the buttons on her linen shirt, releasing them one by one until she was looking down at the swell of her bare breasts. "This is the domain of another, far less perfect." He cursed again, the word reverberating through the room as he spread the two halves of her shirt and bared her to him. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

She watched that hand, large and bronzed, slide across the skin of her stomach, a wicked promise. "Please," she said, desperate for him.

"Please what?" he asked.

"Don't make me beg."

He looked at her then, knowledge and understanding in those unbearably gorgeous eyes. "I fully intend to make you beg, love. I promised you pleasure of the highest order. I promised you that I would control our time together. And I promised you would enjoy it to distraction. And you want all that, don't you?"

She did not have the energy to lie. She nodded. "Yes."

He leaned forward then, rewarding her truth with a long, lingering suck at one nipple, until she cried out her pleasure and put her hands in his hair.

The moment she touched him, he stopped. "Put your hands on the desk."

She did what he asked without question.

He liked it. "Look at yourself," he commanded, letting one finger draw a wicked circle around the straining tip he had just anointed. She looked fully the wanton, Anna, in all her glory, and Georgiana took the moment to arch her back, presenting her bare breasts to him. Tempting him once more.

She was rewarded with another long caress, this time on the breast he had previously ignored. And then he lifted his head and said, "I want you to enjoy this."

She smiled. "I have no concerns that I shan't enjoy it."

He was utterly serious. "If I do anything you do not like, I want you to tell me."

"I shall."

"I shall know if you are lying."

She met his gaze. "I shan't lie. Not in this."

In all other things, but not here. Not with him.

She took a deep breath. "Shall we go to my bed?" It was a heartbeat away, behind a nearby door. Large and plush and made for him. She would be lying if she said she had not spent many a night in that very bed, thinking of this man, of this moment. Of the way he might touch her one day. Of the way he might want her one day.

And that day had come.

He shook his head, his fingers playing at the tip of her breast, sending a thrill through her. "I don't want you anywhere he's had you."

Chase.

She shook her head. "You don't have to worry."

She saw the storm cross his face at the words. She wished him to know the truth. "I have not... with anyone..."

He held up a hand, staying the words. "Don't."

He did not believe her. "Duncan —" she began, letting the words sound her urgency.

He did not let her finish, instead pulling her to the edge of the desk. "Here."

She looked down at the oak. "Here? On the desk?"

"On his desk."

She heard the slight emphasis on the pronoun, barely there. Barely noticeable if one did not expect it. She also heard the frustration in the words, instantly understanding its roots – he thought there was no place in the club where she and Chase hadn't done this.

And so he took ownership of this place, where he believed Chase was king.

He wanted her here.

And, God help her, she wanted him just as much.

More.

She nodded. "Here."

He watched her for a long moment, and she saw the myriad of emotions chase through him: anger, frustration, desire.

Pain.

She reached for him, wanting to stop it, but he resisted, pulling away from her touch, instead moving to lift one of her feet in his enormous hands. "I want you here," he said, gruffly, unlacing her boot. "I want you naked," he said, punctuating the slide of the boot from her foot as he set it on the arm of a chair perched nearby and set to work on the second. "And I want you mine."

Mine.

The word curled through her on a flood of desire, robbing her of breath. When had anyone ever wanted her like this? When had anyone ever honestly desired to claim her? Yes, men wanted her body when she dressed in her bold silks and satins and paraded through the casino as Anna, but this was different. He wanted her – Georgiana – in a way no one ever had. Not even the man she had given herself to all those years ago.

But the way he spoke that word – Mine – it was not a request. It was, instead, a gruff promise. A claiming. A possession.

And she found she wanted to be possessed.

Very much.

The thought was punctuated by the slide of her second boot, removed with a single, firm tug and tossed to the floor as Duncan returned his hands to her stockinged feet. He took her ankles in his hands, lifting her legs, parting them, stepping between them. She instinctively wrapped herself around him, pulling him closer until they met, hard and hot, where they each wanted the other. She threw her head back as he pressed into her, and he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, holding her weight, keeping her arched and open to him.

"Say it," he growled, meeting her eyes, his free hand coming up to palm one aching breast. "Say it, and I'll give you everything you want."

She did not have to ask what he meant. She knew. Knew, also, that it would not be a lie. Somehow in this mad world, in this mad time, she had come to adore this man. She had come to belong to him. And it was beautiful.

But it could never last.

But nothing beautiful lasted – was that not the lesson she had learned all those years ago, wrapped in warm arms and crisp hay? Love was fleeting and ephemeral, the desperate dream of a naïve, innocent girl.

And so she would give herself to this, and then walk away and live the life she intended.

But first, freedom.

First, him.

"I am yours," she confessed.

He rewarded her with a deep, wonderful growl and a long, devastating kiss that ended with him pulling her to the edge of the desk and setting his hands to the fall of her breeches, working at the buttons with intent skill, unfastening them one after the other until the trousers loosened and he slid them down her legs, taking her stockings with him.

"My lady," he said, Stepping back, watching her with vivid concentration. She could not meet his gaze, too keenly aware of what she must look like – shirt hanging open, loose around her shoulders, the last vestige of her clothing.

Too keenly aware of her past, of the lies she'd built around her about this act. Of the fact that she'd only ever done this once before.

"Look at me." The words were full of command, and she should have hated them, but she didn't. Her gaze snapped to his, recognizing the power in him.

Wanting it.

"My lady." He whispered, the words both prayer and promise.

"Open for me." The command stole her breath, and she hesitated, not knowing if she could. It was one thing to bare herself to him in the dark waters of his transcendent swimming pool, but another thing entirely to do it here, in broad daylight.

It had never been like this. The only time she had ever come close to this experience had been a decade earlier, with a man who had lied to her. Ruined her. Left her.

There had been nothing about those fleeting, life-altering moments in the hayloft at Leighton Manor that had come close to this moment with this man.

Nothing about that time that even approximated this. This was freedom – the last breath of her life before she committed to a new world as aristocratic wife, committed to nothing but her daughter's legacy.

And so why not enjoy it?

Why not welcome the moment and drink from its cup?

Lifted her chin, pressed her shoulders back, bold as brass. "Make me."

Something wicked flared in his beautiful brown eyes. "You think I cannot?"

"I think you wish me to do your work for you." She willed him forward. Willed him to touch her.

Instead, he took a step back and sat in a leather chair that stood by the desk, leaning back, deceptively relaxed. Nervousness flared deep in her, but she resisted it.

His gaze raked over her as he stretched out in the chair, his booted feet mere inches from her bare ones. "Open for me," he repeated.

She gave him a small smile. "It shan't be so easy."

He raised a brow. "No. It shan't." He lingered on her breasts, and her skin heated at the regard as he moved his gaze down, toward the place she wanted him quite desperately. He watched her until she thought she might die from his attention. Just when she was about to give in to him, he said, "You are going to open for me, and when you do, you will regret not doing so when I asked."

Her eyes widened. "Is that a threat?"

His lips curved in a slow, near-mercenary smile. "Not in the slightest." He lifted one hand and set it to his jaw, assessing her with a long, leisurely look, his index finger stroking over his lower lip in a gesture a lesser woman might deem pensive.

Georgiana was not a lesser woman. The movement of that finger was not pensive. It was predatory.

And every inch it moved on his lips seemed to light a fire in her.

"You will regret it, though," he went on, "as every moment you are not open to me is a moment I do not touch you. A moment you do not feel my hands, and my mouth, and my tongue."

The words sent a shock through her as she imagined all those things, a repeat of the night in his swimming pool. The glorious feel of him against her.

"A moment I do not stroke... or kiss... or lick."

She exhaled at the final word, at the way it seemed to deliver on its meaning, leaving a trail of fire straight through her to the place he asked for... to the place she wanted him.

He understood. "You enjoy it when I lick you, don't you, my lady?"

Good God. She was not a prude; she'd spent the last six years surrounded by gamers and prostitutes. She ran London's finest gaming hell, for heaven's sake. But all that seemed entirely ordinary and acceptable compared to this man, who had turned into sin incarnate the moment they'd touched.

It was broad daylight, and he spoke of licking as though it were the weather.

"Georgiana," he prompted, her name a slow promise. "Do you enjoy it?"

That finger on his lips was driving her mad. She pressed her thighs together, reminding herself of their game. "I seem to recall it being quite pleasant."

Something flared in his eyes. Humor. Understanding of the part she played. "Only pleasant?"

She smiled, small and soft. "As I remember."

"We have differing memories, then," he said, "As I remember your hands in my hair, your cries in the darkness, your legs wrapped around me like sin." His gaze fell to the apex of her thighs. "I remember the flood of you when you came, the way you arched toward the sky, everything forgotten except pleasure. Wrought by me. By my tongue in all the places you ached."

She forgot the game, her muscles going weak as he spoke.

"I remember the taste of you, sweet and sex... and the feel of you, like decadent silk, soft and wet... and mine."

That word again. His.

He was seducing her with nothing but words, promising her everything she'd ever wanted if only she gave in – if only she opened to him. She took a deep breath and matched him once more. "You speak of before," she said, unable to keep the breathlessness from her words. "But what good is that to me now? Here?"

His brows rose in surprise before he leaned forward, his words part danger and part play.

And all desire.

"Open for me and let's find out."

She giggled. The sound shocking them both with its honesty. She was almost embarrassed – would have been if he hadn't dropped his hand and leaned forward the instant the laugh escaped her lips. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He reached for her, then, one large, warm hand curving around her knee, the touch erasing the game they played.

Her legs parted.

"So goddamn beautiful," he said, his gaze not leaving her face as he came off the chair, falling to his knees at the edge of the desk, between her thighs. "So goddamn perfect." He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then her thigh. "So goddamn honest."

She stiffened at the last, even as his lips curved high at the crease of her thigh, where it met the part of her that ached for him. For this.

Honesty.

She hadn't been honest with him. There was nothing honest about this. Nothing honest about her. And he deserved better.

He sensed the change in her, lifting his lips, meeting her eyes across the long expanse of her torso. "Don't think it."

She knew he did not understand, but replied nonetheless, shaking her head. "I cannot help it."

He pressed a kiss to the soft hair above the most secret part of her, the caress long and lingering and somehow sweet. "Tell me," he said.

There were a dozen things she should tell him. A hundred she wished to tell him. But only one that found its way out. And it was perhaps the truest thing she'd ever said.

"I wish it could be like this. Forever."

Her words nearly killed him. The truth of them, the way they mirrored his own thoughts, here in this place that was not his. Was not hers. This place that would ruin them both without question.

He wanted it forever, too, but, it was impossible. His past, her future, neither was conducive to forever. Those outside forces that loomed, they were barriers to forever.

No, forever was for simpler people and simpler times.

He leaned forward on his knees, keenly aware of the position, of the way he worshipped her, as though she were a goddess and he were her sacrifice. He pressed a kiss to the pretty soft curls that hid her secrets. Her position – the trust in it – the pleasure in it – made him harder than he'd ever been in his life.

He wanted this woman.

He might not be able to have her forever, but he could have this moment, this memory... This could last. It could stay with him on dark nights.

And it could ruin her for every other man who came after him.

"I've never tasted anything like you," he whispered, letting his breath tease those curls as he parted her slowly, adoring the way she glistened, warm and pink for him. "Sweet and sinful and forbidden." He ran one finger down the wet slit gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. "Slick and wet and perfect."

He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the way her breath hitched and rattled as he explored. "And you know it, don't you? You know your power."

She shook her head. "No."

He met her gaze, leaned in, let his tongue stroke once, long and lush along her. He reveled in the way she gasped, the way she closed her eyes against the pleasure. "No," he said. "Don't look away."

She opened her eyes, and he licked again, loving the way desire flooded her. "Tell me."

"It feels —"

He repeated the movement, lingering at the top of the caress, where she wanted him most, and she cried out. He spoke there. "Go on."

"Glorious."

"More."

He swirled his tongue over the little, straining bud, and she sighed. "Don't stop."

"I won't if you tell me."

"It feels like... I've never..." He sucked, loving the way she lost her words. "Oh, God."

He smiled, letting his tongue play at her. "Not God."

"Duncan." She sighed his name, and he thought he would die if he wasn't inside her soon.

"Tell me."

"It's beautiful." Her hands found his hair, her fingers pressing him toward her as her hips rocked against him. "You're perfect," she whispered, and he was shocked by the words. And then she said something thoroughly unexpected. "It feels like... love."

And there, in that moment, with the word hovering in the air, he realized that that was precisely what he meant for it to feel like.

He loved her.

The realization should have terrified him, but instead, it washed over him with the warm pleasure that came from truth, finally revealed. And at the far edge of that pleasure was the edge of something unpleasant. Devastation. Denial.

He ignored it, instead making love to her with slow, slick strokes. She moved against him, showing him what she liked, where she liked it, and he gave it to her without hesitation. She was manna, and he fed upon her, wanting to bring her pleasure only to give her pleasure. To give her the memory of this moment.

Of his love – a love that could not be.

Slow circles became fast, moving in time to her breath and her sighs and the feel of her fingers in his hair and the rise and fall of her glorious hips. And then she found her release, and he held her, stroking her, kissing her softly, guiding her through it, and back.

As her last, pleased sigh echoed around them, he rose from his knees, desperate for her, adoring the way her gaze tracked him, eyes wide, lips parted. He stripped out of his coat and cravat, watching her watch him, wanting her as she wanted him. He pulled his shirt over his head, lowering his arms and resisting the urge to preen as her attention fell to his chest, to his stomach

She closed her mouth, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

He wanted to roar his pleasure at her obvious approval.

"Poseidon," she whispered.

He raised a brow in silent question, wondering if he would be able to wait for her answer before he took her in his arms and made her his. Forever.

He could ignore the word and its insidious whisper in the dark recesses of his mind, because she answered. "At your home, in your swimming pool..." She reached for him, her fingertips running along his shoulder, down the curve of his arm, where his muscles were taut with the effort it took not to claim her. "You were Poseidon in the water, so strong..." The fingers moved to the muscles of his abdomen. "So perfectly made..." trailing up through the hair there, "so handsome..." sliding over the skin of his chest until they found the flat disc of his nipple and he nearly groaned his pleasure. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest in a lovely, lingering caress.

She pulled away and met his gaze. "God of the sea."

"And you, my siren," he said, reaching for her, letting his fingers slide into the soft hair at the nape of her neck, lifting her face to him.

"I hope not," she said, and he paused, waiting for her to explain. She smiled, and the expression was small and filled with sin. "Poseidon could resist the sirens."

He could not resist her. Not for all the world. He took her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss, even as her hands came to the fall of his trousers and he thought he might die from the wait as she worked at the buttons there. She fumbled with the fastenings and he moved to take over.

"No," she said, pulling back and meeting his gaze. "I want to do it."

He took a breath, steeled himself. "Do it, then."

And then there was a glorious release, and her hands were sliding into the placket of his trousers, finally, finally touching him. He swore, the word harsh and soft in the room as she freed him. He watched her, loving the way her gaze fell to him, the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, and he would have given his entire fortune to know what she thought of him. And then the tip of her pink tongue came out, sliding along her lower lip, and her hands moved, stroking, long and lush.

Once. Twice.

He placed his hand on hers, staying the movement. "Stop."

She froze, her gaze flying to his. "Am I..." She hesitated. Tried again. "Did I do something wrong?"

He stilled at the words, at the expression in her wide eyes – concern, apprehension. He narrowed his gaze on hers, hating the falseness. He loved her. And still she lied to him. "No. Don't play the innocent. I want the real you. Not the fantasy." He put his hands to her cheeks, turning her up to him. "I don't care about the past. Only about the present."

The future.

No. He could not care about that.

It was not for him.

Something flashed in those beautiful amber eyes. Something like frustration. She looked away, then down at where their hands were entwined, wrapped about him. "Show me," she whispered finally. "Show me what you like."

He leaned in, kissing her again, wanting to return them to the moment. He slid his lips to her ear. "I like it all, love. I like every bit of you on every bit of me. And I like your hands wrapped around me, tight and hot like a promise." Her breathing was fast at his ear, and he guided her hands on him. "I like your beautiful eyes on me. I like you watching me. I like you watching yourself touch me." He moved back enough to let her look down their bodies, at their hands, at the length of him, so close to her. So close to the place he wanted to be. "Shall I tell you what else I like?"

She stroked him several times before she answered, the whisper filled with desire. "Yes."

I love you.

No. It would only bring them both pain.

He reached for her, sliding one finger into her, slick from his mouth and her desire. "I like your pretty pink lips."

She laughed at the words, breathless. He slid one finger deep into her tight, dark channel, and the laugh became a gasp. He looked up at her. "And I would like very much to be inside you."

She met his eyes. "I want that, too."

He kissed her, then set his forehead to hers as she placed him where she wanted him, at the entrance to her, and he bit back a curse at the sensation, so hot and wet – for him. He eased into her, so tight, and she sucked in a breath. He met her eyes, registering the discomfort there. "Georgiana?" he asked, something unsettling him even as he thought he might die from the pleasure of her.

She shook her head. "It is fine."

Except it wasn't. She was in pain. He eased back.

She clamped her legs around his waist. "No. Please. Now."

If he didn't know better...

She pulled him closer, and he lost the thought until her breath hitched again. "Stop," he said. "Let me..."

He pulled back, then rocked in again, in short, gentle slides, each deeper than the last, until he was deep inside her, buried to the hilt. "Yes," she whispered as he bent and placed a long, lingering kiss to the place where her neck met her shoulder. "Yes."

He could not have said it better himself.

He pulled back, met her eyes. "Is it —?"

She leaned up and kissed him, letting her tongue slide between his lips in a stunning kiss. When it was through, she said, "It is magnificent." Then she pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him back enough to look down between them. "Look at us."

He did, following her gaze, and he felt himself grow even harder, deep inside her. She inhaled, then smiled. "You seem to be enjoying yourself, sir."

Christ. He loved her.

He wanted her. Playful. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sinful.

Forever.

He matched her smile with his own. "I can think of ways I would enjoy myself more."

She placed her hands at the curve of his buttocks and squeezed. He groaned. "Show me."

And he did.

He moved in deep, decadent strokes, and she matched him, lifting her long legs, his name on her lips like a mantra, first soft and barely there, and then a cry of pleasure, making him wish this moment would never end. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close as he thrust, and her hands came to his shoulders, wrapping tightly around him as she cried out for him.

As though he would leave her.

As though it were possible for him to leave her.

He would never leave her.

She pulled back at the last moment, as he thrust fast and strong against her. She met his gaze. "Now," she said, the word full of desire and wonder, hinting at something he would be able to grasp if his head weren't so damn full of her. "Now."

Now, indeed.

She fell into pleasure, tight and perfect around him, with such power that he thought he might not survive it. She called his name as he thrust once, twice, hard and fast and glorious until his release raced toward him, and he pulled out of her, coming hard and fast and like nothing he'd ever experienced.

As one.

And he knew, instantly, that he had not ruined her for other men.

She had ruined him for other women. For life.

He pulled away, and she sighed a protest at his departure, making him ache for her once more. He wasn't ready to leave her, but he fastened his trousers loosely, and removed a handkerchief, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to one of the large chairs on the far side of the room before settling her into his lap and cleaning her.

"You didn't..." she trailed off.

"I didn't think you would want the risk." Not that he didn't secretly enjoy the idea – a collection of tiny blond children with their mother's pretty amber eyes. "You did not choose the last time. You should choose the next."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and he pulled her close, wanting to keep her safe now. Forever.

Christ. That word again.

She curled into him as he stroked his hands over her beautiful, soft skin, replaying the event in his mind as their breathing returned to normal, turning over her words, her movements, her sounds.

The moments of surprise. Of wonder. Of desire.

Of discomfort.

Realization dawned.

She lifted her head when his hands stilled on her. "What is it?"

He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

Not wanting it to be true.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Tell me."

I have not... with anyone...

She'd said it. He simply hadn't believed her.

Who was she?

What game did she play?

What game did Chase play?

He met her eyes, noting the openness there, the honesty. So rare. Something must have shown in his own gaze, because hers went wary. "Duncan?"

He didn't want to say it, and yet, he could not stop himself. "You're not a whore."