CHAPTER 30: CHAPTER THIRTY

And he had just given her a "tip."

"Never," he had growled, "stay alone with a man in such clothing."

Ines blinked, her mind a complete, dazed blank. The shock of the sudden, intimate contact had scattered her thoughts.

"Such... clothings?" she repeated, her voice a confused squeak. Her mind was a blank. She was too close, too hot, too... held. What was he talking about?

She looked down. And she saw what he saw.

She saw her own body, pressed against his dark, severe clothes. She saw the pale blue, whisper-thin silk. She saw the lamplight shining right through it. The light outlined her legs, the curve of her hips, the shadow between her thighs. It illuminated the dark, hard peaks of her breasts, pushing clearly against the delicate fabric. She was, for all intents and purposes, naked.

A wave of screaming mortification, so powerful it almost made her faint, crashed over her.

"Oh!"

It was a small, strangled sound.

She ripped herself from his grasp. She did not just "break free"; She stumbled back, nearly tripping over the leg of the chair he had abandoned. She clutched the two thin, useless pieces of her silk robe together at her throat, her hands yanking the fabric so tightly she was surprised it didn’t rip.

"I apologize," she stammered, her face burning. "I... I did not think. I thought.... I did not... I did not realize."

She clutched her robe firmer at her throat, her knuckles white. She was breathing in short, shallow gasps, her gaze fixed on the floor, on a dark knot in the wood.

"It is not about etiquette, Ines," Carcel said. His voice was rough, strained. He did not move from his spot, but he looked... angry. Or in pain. He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair.

"Inside a man," he said, his voice low and tight, "is a... a boiling desire. It is a part of us. It is always there. And if you show such a... such a provocative appearance to him... if you are alone with him, and you look at him like... like that." His gaze raked over her, from her wide, terrified eyes, down to her silk-covered body, and back up again.

"I am not sure if he can resist."

He sounded... like he was in a fight.

Ines’s mind was reeling. Provocative? Me?

She thought, but her body was behaving strangely. She was not just embarrassed. That strange, restless, tingling feeling... it was back. It was in her legs. It was a heaviness, a new, sharp, and delicious ache that was making it difficult to stand.

My legs, she thought, dazed. I feel... strange.

He made it sound like a warning. A real, tangible warning. He was telling her that he... that any man... that she herself... that she was in danger. He was telling her that he was dangerous. But her body... her body was not listening. It was... singing.

"If he can’t resist," she asked, her voice a tiny, breathless whisper, "what... what happens then?"

Carcel let out a sound. It was not a laugh. It was a short, dark, sharp huff of air. "That," he said, his voice a low growl, "is a very dangerous question, Ines."

He finally moved, taking a single, slow step toward her, closing the small distance she had created. She was backed against the heavy, solid desk. He was in front of her again. His lips were inches from hers. She could feel his breath, hot and quick, on her skin.

"A question," he whispered, his eyes on her mouth, "that provokes a man."

He put one hand on the desk, beside her hip, his arm a solid bar, trapping her. He leaned in, his body caging hers.

"Aren’t you going to run away?" he murmured.

She should. Every piece of her upbringing, every rule of society, every instinct of self-preservation, was screaming at her to run. To slap him. To scream for Rowan.

But she... couldn’t.

She was mesmerized. She was staring into his eyes. They were not cold. They were not calm. They were black, and they were on fire, and they were looking at her as if she were the only thing in the room. In the world.

"Huh?" she responded. It was an unexpected, breathless, tiny sound.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He touched his forehead to hers.

The contact was electric. Skin against skin. His skin was hot. She could feel the faint, damp stubble of his brow. She looked into his eyes. They were inches away. They were black, and endless, and she could see the lamplight reflected in them, two tiny, dancing flames.

"Don’t you understand," he breathed, his lips almost brushing hers, "what I will do to you?"

He was giving her one last chance. He was begging her, she realized, to be the sensible one. To stop this. To run.

But she couldn’t run.

"I know what you will do to me," she replied.

Her thoughts, in that tiny, super-heated space between them, were suddenly, shockingly clear.

I haven’t done it before. I have never, ever been this close to a man. But I... I can instinctively tell. I can tell by his gaze. By his smell. By the way he is breathing. If he moves... if he moves just one more inch... then it will be just like he said earlier. A deep... and intense... kiss. The kiss that tastes. The kiss that claims.

Her insatiable, reckless curiosity, the very part of her that had gotten her into this, overtook her senses.

What on earth, she thought, her gaze fixed on his lips, is a kiss that satisfies even emotional desires?

She spoke again, her own voice a surprise to her. It was not the voice of a lady. It was the voice of... her character, Doris.

"Why should I run away?" She replied.

She could feel his hot breath, ghosting over her skin.

He wants this, her mind realized with a jolt that was pure, white-hot lightning. This man. The Duke of Carleton. The man I have admired all my life. The man who danced with me when no one else dared to. The man who broke another’s hand for me. He wants me. There is nothing more wonderful than this. Than kissing him, now. I don’t want to run away.

I want him.

She lifted her head, just a fraction, her eyes, wide and dark and pleading, locking with his. She whispered his name. It sounded like a surrender.

"Carcel..."

It was all he was waiting for. Her consent. And she has handed it over to him.

His control, which he had been holding onto by a single, frayed thread, snapped.

His mouth crashed down on hers.