Page 170 of Immortal Rose

“Yes,” she was whispering against his lips, “yes—”

“May I touch you here?” he whispered roughly. He needed to know he could continue, that she wanted this. Truly. “I want—I want to give you pleasure—”

“I will kill you if you don’t,” she gasped out.

He let out a soft, delirious laugh against her lips. His fingers stroked the warm seam of her sex, slipping a finger into it to stroke her before finding the small, swollen bundle of nerves at its apex.

Her hips jerked at the touch, her legs clamping around him as her wide eyes locked on his, her expression dissolving with undiluted pleasure. She mewled, a sound that would live inside him forever, and surged forward to meet his lips as he sought hers, devouring.

This was right. This was everything. She was everything. No one would take her from him now, she was his to have, to protect, to love.

Heat ringed his neck, a flame burning just beneath his collarbone.

“Please,” she begged him, trying to draw him closer still, her hand working his shaft until he thought he might die from the pleasure of it, of her. She was so wet for him. “Please—Hugh.”

That same heat turned to a knife, slicing through his awareness. He tore his lips from hers, his body from hers, clutching at his chest, trying to pull that flame away from his skin. The charm—

The charm.

The thought blared through his lust-addled mind, dosing him like ice water. Viola reached for him, her divine body displayed, primed for him, and God help him, he almost threw himself back into the bliss of that embrace.

Hugh clung to the thread of awareness the pain brought, stumbling past a well-appointed bed. The sensation of her skin haunted his hands as he fumbled with the window and its latch. Cold, foggy city air tore into the room as he threw it open, bracing his hands against the frame, drawing in breath after ragged breath.

The incense.

Some magic was hidden in or by the heady scent. Had Viola detected some trace of it? Was that the reason for her hesitation at the door? But then, she hadn’t warned him . . .

Hugh pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to master himself, his blazing heart. She wasn’t to blame. He had brought her here, and the magic had come on so slowly, so thoroughly seducing his mind, he hadn’t noticed it was happening until the pendant had finally absorbed enough of the enchantment to break its hold. It had felt like a natural deepening of his own desperation for her.

His cock was hard as a diamond as he somehow restored his fall. Turning back to her was his second worst mistake of the night. He let out a ragged groan and nearly fell to his knees.

After he’d abandoned her, Viola had reached down to pleasure herself, her eyes closed, her kiss-swollen lips panting. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed. It was hell itself, knowing the truth. The cold reality of the situation, of what they had nearly done, was the only reason he didn’t spend in his breeches like a lad of thirteen.

She was a goddess. Her beautiful, rosy face twisting with the sweet agony of chasing the high, and every instinct in him begged him to replace her hand with his mouth.

You bastard, he swore savagely at himself, you fool, bringing her here—

Viola cried out, frustrated as release eluded her. The charm scalded him with the intensity of the magic it had sapped from him, and the sting of it sharpened his restraint.

You cannot, he bellowed at himself. She does not truly want this, you cannot trap her in this life . . .

He risked losing his very mind as he gathered her in his arms, her body all but boneless with that same drugging pleasure clinging to his own. He wondered if the incense heightened every touch, every sensation, as well, because the feel of her against him was molten on his skin. Hugh shook his head, forcing himself to focus, to help her. He brought her to the window. She shivered as the cool air struck her hot, flushed skin.

“No, sweetheart,” he murmured as she tried to keep him from restoring her bodice, to press his hands to her breasts. Hugh nearly broke at her confusion, her pained noises of thwarted desire. Her pupils were huge, her lips begging for more of his attention to be lavished on them.

Viola was all but sobbing with her need. “Hugh . . . please . . .”

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry—it’s not real—it’s not—” He held her to his chest, locking his arms around her to keep her from writhing. Stars burned behind his eyelids as her soft body pressed against his arousal. She pounded a fist futilely against his back as she wept with desperation.

God, in the next life, send me back as a rakehell, Hugh prayed, opening his eyes to glare at the nude women painted on the ceiling. Someone who has no morals or qualms.

No, damn it. He didn’t want that, either. He detested those men. He just wanted her.

As if it could soothe away his own pained longing, Hugh smoothed down her skirt, his hand gently restoring her disheveled hair to the best of his meager ability. Bloody hairpins were the Devil’s own instrument of torture, he decided, struggling to slide one back into place. He wanted nothing more than to rip all of them out of her curls, let them tumble around him like—

Hugh gritted his teeth. The smell of her perfume, her skin, her desire, filled his senses; he focused his whole being on it, trying to commit it to memory. Using it to push away the narcotic effect of the incense.

“I want you,” she pleaded. “I want you, too.”