Struggling to maintain his mask of nonchalance, Dorian pulled himself up short, gluing his boots to the marble and refusing to take another step. Wasn’t there a saying about losing control of situations like this? Moth to a flame? Flying too close to the sun?
Those breasts, that was what. Silken globes of pale perfection tipped with tight nipples the most flawless shade of pink. The delicate dip of her waist, the small divot in the center of her stomach that seemed to draw his eye ever downward to the thin nest of golden curls between her—
“No,” he declared through teeth that would not unclench no matter how much he ordered them to.
“No?” she echoed, her light, delicate brows drawing together. “Don’t you want me?”
“No.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t exactly the truth, either. From the moment he’d entered the room and seen the way her hair brushed her bare shoulders, his body had betrayed him. As she washed for him, his cock had become heavy, full, and hard. And now? Now even the lightest brush of his kilt caused him inconceivable pleasure and agonizing pain.
Her lashes fluttered down, her expression the only thing hidden from him. “What about me do you find distasteful?”
“It isn’t that.” The instinct to protect her from hurt was a hard one to smother.
“Then…” Her gaze bounced to the side, her arms inching up to cover her breasts, now quivering with a chill. “Are you and Mr. Murdoch somehow involved—”
“Christ, no!” Running frustrated fingers through his hair he paced away from her, needing to fill his eyes with something other than the bounty of her glorious skin, and then back toward her, already craving the sight of it. How often since they met had he secretly fantasized? How much torment had this woman already caused him? How much more could he take?
“Then … why?” she asked, the boldness seeping out of her voice.
Another man, a better man, would have covered her to spare her modesty. Would have warmed her from the chill now visible on her delicate flesh. Would have swept her slick body into his arms and carried her to the bed, sinking into her softness before the moisture on her skin had time to dry.
But the only man here was him, and he was incapable of giving her what she asked for because …
“It’s simply out of the question,” he insisted, through teeth still ground together.
Her eyes softened and she cast a surreptitious glance at his kilt, and Dorian had never been more grateful for his sporran to shield what his manhood was doing. “Is it that your body is not—able?”
The noise his throat produced sounded more cruel than he’d meant it to, but he couldn’t explain that he’d meant to direct it at himself. “My body…” His body wasn’t the problem. Even now, as he forced himself to look at her, a wave of aching pleasure made an agonizing journey down his spine until his every muscle clenched and the tip of his cock wept a tear of yearning. “My body could take yours until you begged me for mercy.”
Her full lower lip dropped open, and the silver of her irises overtook the green as he knew it was wont to do. “Then do it,” she whispered in a quivering voice. “I’ll marry you, and you have my permission to—take me however you’d like, until I am with child.” She blinked often as she said this, and held her tiny fists tightly at her sides, but her posture, her expression, remained resolute.
To any other man, her offer would have been like receiving the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. To Dorian, it was like being thrust into the deepest pit of hell.
He fought to retain his composure, to tear his eyes away from her, but the feat proved biblical. His eyes had never feasted like this. His body never responded to any sight like it did to her.
And why wouldn’t it? She belonged to him.
Only him.
All this time, a part of him had expected that little silver-haired fairy whose stories still haunted his every night. Dorian hadn’t prepared himself for the bold, elegant woman who stirred his blood and inflamed his body.
No, his body wasn’t the problem.
It was his mind.
The flames that had licked at the ice encasing his heart were quickly doused in a rush of frustrated fury and self-disgust. “We will not lie together,” he enunciated darkly, red beginning to seep into the periphery of his vision. “I decline your conditions.”
Eyes narrowing, Farah turned, giving him a view of her heart-shaped rear before she lifted her leg and stepped out of the bath.
If a man like Dorian Blackwell whimpered, he would have then. Could fate be any more cruel?
She reached for her robe and belted it over her lovely nudity. “If you decline my condition, then I decline your proposal.” Grabbing a towel, she began to work the excess water from her luxurious curls.
“You forget, it wasn’t a proposal,” he reminded her. Dorian also hadn’t expected her to be so strong. So willful. As a child, wasn’t she the sweetest of cherubs?
She cast him an irritated glance, still ministering to her hair. “Regardless of what you call it, I’ll refuse. I’ll marry Inspector Mor—”
“You will not!” he roared, stalking toward her. “You don’t love him.” Crazed, he reached for her shoulders, to shake some bloody sense into her, but before he could bring himself to do it, his fingers curled in upon themselves, the joints cracking with the force of his rage.
Fear flared in her lovely eyes, but she didn’t back away from him. “I don’t love you, either,” she reciprocated. “That isn’t part of this discussion, is it?”