Page 82 of Duke It Out
“Edie,” he says, and my name is a low murmur on his lips.
I try to laugh but it comes out shaky and breathless. “Is this the part where you seduce the writer behind the curtain at the ball?”
He catches my hair in his hand then lifts it so it falls back over my shoulder, letting the edge of his thumb run along the base of my neck for a moment. My breath hitches and I look up at him.
“This is the part where I stop pretending I haven’t been thinking about you every fucking moment since the first time I saw you.”
And then he kisses me. It’s not a gentle kiss. He kisses me like he’s furious with himself for wanting me. Like he wants it to silence something inside him.
“We can’t—” I say breathlessly as he eventually pulls away.
“Yes, we bloody can,” growls Rory. He takes my hand, and I follow him through a hidden door in the wood panelling and into a dark staircase. It smells of damp stone. He reaches out and traces the line of my jaw with a thumb. “I’ve made myspeech, and now I’m going to exercise my right to fuck off.” He motions to the staircase. “After you.”
I hesitate for a moment, my hand on the smooth metal rail, not sure where the stairs lead.
He narrows his eyes for a moment as if he’s trying to work out what I’m thinking, then gives a brief laugh. “It’s a secret staircase to the west wing.”
“Oh,” I say as I start climbing the stairs, weirdly calm despite the fact my heart is thumping, “I thought perhaps you were taking me to a secret dungeon.”
“Perhaps I am.”
Oh, fucking hell. A jolt of desire almost knocks me sideways. And then I feel his hand on the curve of my waist in the gloomy half-darkness.
“Here.” He reaches past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder as he pushes open another hidden door. I inhale the familiar scent of his aftershave as I duck under his arm and into the familiar carpeted corridor.
Rory closes the door with a soft click and turns around to look at me, caging me with his arms against the silk wallpaper. I lean back and look at him with a half-smile. “Are you sure you aren’t going to get into trouble for bunking off?”
He shakes his head slowly and tips my chin up with one finger, a smile curving on his lips. “I can’t get in trouble. I’m in charge.”
“I’d better do as you say,” I say, teasing, emboldened by cocktails and whisky.
In response he leans in to kiss me, gently this time, and then surveys me with a thoughtful expression. “Good girl.”
In his accent, in that kilt, with that upper class restraint, it’s all too much. There’s a pulse beating between my legs andI reach up, twining my arms around his neck as he pushes me back against the wall, not caring that we’ve knocked a priceless painting askew.
“Come on,” he says, taking me by the hand and leading me to his room.
31
EDIE
It’s exactlywhat I’d have expected. Understated wealth and history combined – dark wood furniture that’s ageless and priceless glowing softly. Thick curtains that could shut out the Highland light when it stretches into the early hours in midsummer. And a fire burning in the grate, tended by unseen hands, reminding me if I needed it that this man lives in a world a million miles from mine.
I barely have time to register it before Rory kicks the door closed behind us, his hand still wrapped around mine. He turns me around and I’m backed against the panelled wood, his arms caging me in. The heat of his body is overwhelming. In the distance I can hear the faint sounds of the ball downstairs, muffled beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, tilting my chin up towards him.
His mouth twitches in that half-smile that makes my stomach flip, and his eyes fix on mine. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Maybe I should—” I begin, but I don’t finish thesentence because his mouth is on mine, hard and demanding. It’s nothing like the kiss we shared in the library. This is something raw and primal, as if he’s abandoned all his usual self-control. I gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against mine. My hands fist his dark shirt, pulling him closer.
He breaks away for a moment, his voice low and rasping. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head. “No.”
The word is barely out of my mouth and his hands are in my hair, cradling my head as he kisses me again. I feel the pins coming loose and red waves tumble down at my shoulders. His fingers tangle in it, tipping my head back gently as his mouth trails down my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. His hand tightens on the long rope of my hair, and I hear a low sound of approval from deep in my throat.
“I’ve thought about this every night,” he murmurs, “When you were here, right under my roof.”
