Page 63 of Gone with the Rake

Her damp hair spilled over her shoulders, and her skin glowed in the firelight. The sight of her in his clothing awakened something primal within him—a possessive hunger tempered by wonder that she was here, in his room, wearing his shirt.

It took every ounce of willpower not to go to her immediately, not to gather her in his arms and claim her lips. To feel her body pressed against his with only the thin fabric between them.

But he forced himself to move slowly, savor the moment, and feast his eyes on the beautiful view.

Running her fingers through her damp hair, she stared at the fire, the flames flickering in her eyes. His shirt had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone, the smooth expanse of her neck.

Finally, gathering his courage, he crossed the room and sat beside her, close enough that their knees almost touched.

Heat radiated between them that had nothing to do with the fire.

He must have stared at her for too long, because she looked up at him, raising a questioning brow.

He cleared his throat. “In the library, about a month ago. That was you, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, a strand of damp hair falling across her cheek.

“I thought you were a ghost.”

She watched him in silence, the moment stretching between them like an eternity. Then, slowly, she reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm now, slightly roughened by whatever life had thrown at her during their years apart. The touch of her skin against his sent lightning coursing through his veins.

She pressed his palm against her cheek, her gaze never leaving his.

“I am real,” she whispered.

And the words undid him. All his careful restraint, his resolve to move slowly, to not frighten her away—it all crumbled to dust.

She was real.

She was here.

And she was his.

Mine.

He leaned forward, one hand still cradling her cheek while the other slid around her waist, drawing her to him. The scent of her—clean skin, damp hair, and underneath it all, the essence that was uniquely Lily—filled his senses as he captured her mouth in a kiss.

My Lily.

He began gently, afraid of overwhelming her, of asking too much too soon. Just a soft press of lips, an invitation. But when she sighed against his mouth, her body yielding to his touch, something snapped inside him. He deepened the kiss—hungry, desperate, wild. His fingers tangled in her damp hair, cradling the back of her head as he tasted her properly.

She tasted of rain and fire.

With sudden, blinding certainty, he knew he would never get enough.

And he would never let her go.

Wakefield Manor

Ten Years Ago…

“This is the best part of coming home,” Thorn murmured against Lily’s skin as they lay on the plush carpet before the blazing hearth in the library. Books lay strewn around them, their lessons long forgotten.

Thorn had discovered he enjoyed teaching Lily. She was a talented student, quick with both numbers and letters. But what he enjoyed teaching her most were the lessons in passion.

He kissed her neck, then moved lower, dragging the sagging bodice of her dress with him, revealing more of her skin and covering every inch with kisses.

“Oh, Art!” She plunged her fingers into his hair, tugging him even lower.