“Um, I ...” She couldn’t think of what to say. What did one share with a stranger?
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. I can think of other things we can do.” His head dipped, and he captured her lips with his, his hat tapping her on her forehead. Surprised, she froze. Half of her wanted to leap back, to crack him across the face with her hand for taking such liberties. The other half, the half under the influence of the margarita, found the pure physicality of the touch as intoxicating as the alcohol. She liked kissing. No, she loved kissing, a fact she’d discovered when kissing Matthew.
As the man widened his mouth over hers, his tongue seeking entry, Matthew’s blue eyes flashed before her, and she stilled, opening her own. Green peeked back at her.
She broke off the kiss, pushing against him, but he didn’t release her. “No.”
“Aww, c’mon, we’re just having a little fun.” He ducked his head towards her again.
“No, stop,” she repeated more loudly, breaking his grip by stepping back. She wanted to run, but dancers surrounded her on every side.
The man flattened his lips and stepped toward her. Desperately, she thrust her head side to side, looking for Cat. Where had she gone? Panic gripped Amara. Surely this man wouldn’t harm her, not in front of all of these people.
How had she given him the wrong idea? Why did men assume they could take liberties with her? Was she the loose woman everybody accused her of being? She had let this stranger kiss her, after all. Shame settled on her like a hair shirt, scourging her in its unwelcome embrace.
“Hey, I’m—” An arm against her pursuer’s chest stopped him from speaking further.
Amara followed the lean, muscular arm up to the blazing eyes of one Matthew Goodson. “You are bothering the woman. She asked you to stop.”
The man puffed up his chest, glowering at Matthew. After a heated moment of intense eye contact, he tipped his head, touching his fingers to his hat. “My apologies, ma’am.” Like a snake in the grass, he disappeared into the crowd.
Amara’s mouth fell open. Matthew was here. He had rescued her. Gratitude warred with irritation. She didn’t want a man rescuing her. She could fend for herself. Except the hatted man had been disrespectful to her and hadn’t stopped when she asked. “Thank you,” she finally said.
His eyes flashed. Was he vexed with her? “You’re welcome.” His tone was gruff, frosty. “What the hell are you doing, making out with a guy like that?”
Her gratitude exploded in a hot flare of anger. She threw her arms up. “What does it matter to you what I do?” She pointed to a couple whose bodies mashed together as if a single entity, then to a second whose mouths devoured each other nearly whole. “I’m simply trying to be part of the crowd,” she said with a huff. That wasn’t entirely the truth, but her head was spinning, and she couldn’t think straight. “Besides,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “he kissed me! I didn’t want him to!”
Matthew’s shoulders softened, and he put a hand at her back, guiding her from the dance floor. “You’re right. He was the aggressor. I watched the whole thing.”
“What are you doing here?” She stiffened at his touch even as his fingertips sent tendrils of awareness up and down her spine. She hadn’t seen him come in. Then again, there were at least fifty people in here, perhaps closer to one hundred. She stumbled slightly as they exited the floor—whether from nerves or the delicious pink drink, she wasn’t sure.
He gestured toward two men at a table a few feet away. “Here with colleagues, celebrating Doug’s new grant. They insisted. But I think I’d better take you home.”
Home? When she was having fun? “I don’t think so. You are not my keeper.”
His cheeks unexpectedly crinkled into a grin. “No. Most definitely not. But you need one at the moment, to save you from yourself. You’re drunk.”
He nodded in greeting to Cat, who’d returned to Amara’s side. “Sorry, I had to hit the ladies’ room,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here, Matt. Nice to see you getting out. Did I miss anything?”
Amara’s eyes flew to Matthew’s in silent entreaty. Please don’t tell her I was kissing a strange man. She didn’t want to disappoint Cat, not when the woman had been nothing but kind and generous. Plus, Cat believed Amara and Matthew to be a perfect fit. If Amara kept company with someone else, would it upset her?
“Nope, but Amara was telling me how tired she is, and how much she wants to go home for some peace and quiet.”
Amara’s mouth fell open as Matthew shot her a pointed glance. The nerve! Though her head was spinning.
Cat grimaced. “Well, Ben just texted to say Wash is awake and throwing a tantrum about not getting ice cream. At eleven o’clock at night. No peace and quiet to be found at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll take her to my place.”
Both Cat and Amara’s heads whipped up, Cat’s face mirroring Amara’s surprise.
“What?” Amara’s voice was a squeak. She didn’t want to spend the night with Matthew Goodson. She didn’t. First of all, the man had essentially ignored her for more than two weeks. He didn’t want her, and she didn’t need him. Second of all, he was entirely too tempting, standing there in those blue jeans with that fitted black sweater that outlined all of him a bit too nicely. The man was too attractive for his own good, and in her discombobulated state, going home with him was not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.
So why did it thrill her so much?
Chapter 17
The drive to Matthew’s apartment passed in silence, his jaw clenched and eyes firmly on the road. Amara held her head in her hands, the quickly moving scenery not helping her already nauseated stomach. Cat was right; those margaritas were far more powerful than she’d known.
As they pulled into the parking lot, she murmured, “I’m sorry for taking you from your companions. I have ruined your evening.”
He moved a lever and turned off the engine. “On the contrary,” he said, finally looking at her. “This gives me the chance to get more done.”
Her shoulders deflated. Of course. Work. He didn’t want her there, hadn’t invited her for an ulterior reason. He just wanted to work. Disappointment coursed through her, though that was stupid. But the alcohol in her veins, combined with the feel of that cowboy’s lips on hers—a kiss that in no way equaled the ones she’d shared with Matthew—plus the images of the naked Internet people flitting through her head, had her desiring nothing more than to throw herself at Matthew, consequences be damned.
She needed to feel connected to something, someone. Cat and Ben had welcomed her with open arms, doing all they could to help her acclimate to an entirely different century. But it wasn’t the same. They had each other. She had no one. No true friends outside of Cat, who had obligations of her own. No family. The loneliness crashed over her like the waves on Brighton’s beach. Was it so wrong to want to connect, to feel, to be intimate with another person?
That’s what led you into scandal, echoed her mother’s shrill voice in her head.
That desire for connection had propelled her into Drake Evers’ arms, desperate for the emotional as well as physical communion. It hadn’t come. Much of the experience, the intimacies, had been enjoyable. Some had not. But she’d thought it worth it, for them to be combined into one for all eternity.
“I love you,” Drake had vowed after their ardent encounter. “I couldn’t give you up. But ... I’ve married, Amara. Some months ago, in Charleston. Father made me.”
Shocked and dazed, she’d gaped at him, clutching her gown to herself in the middle of the garden. If only she hadn’t, if only they hadn’t. If only no one had come along. But they had, and Amara had been discovered there, in complete dishabille in a garden. With a man.
The damage had been done. She was ruined.
Yet the carnal urges that had led her to the garden in the first place never left. She still desired, longed, wanted, both physically and emotionally. She’d beaten it down
as much as she could, not wanting to give in to the side of herself that proved her a wanton, a slave to her own evil flesh.
Until finally, she’d kissed Lord Hodgins. It’d been an act of desperation, an attempt to embrace life on the other side, carry on affairs, and have a different sort of existence, regardless of society’s disapproval. She’d been twenty-seven, for Pete’s sake. Was she to live a drab, passionless existence because of one mistake made years ago?
Then Eliza had come. Joyful, exuberant Eliza, with her absolute faith in true love and her adamant belief Amara had done no wrong, who asserted that sex, as she’d so plainly termed it, was a wondrous thing to be shared between two people, without shame or guilt involved. It was a gift, not a sin.
Amara could choose to lie with a man purely for physical pleasure in this century, Eliza promised. But she’d maintained people could and did form deep, permanent, intimate attachments—and she hoped Amara would find such an attachment. “I want you to have what I’ve found with your brother,” she’d insisted. “A love like this is worth opening yourself up for.”
That was obviously true for Deveric, who’d changed into a man barely recognizable. Gone was the stoic, dark, brooding brother she’d grown accustomed to over the course of his unhappy first marriage—and the devastating loss of his wife and daughter.
Now Deveric radiated happiness, his eyes lighting up whenever his wife was near, his love and affection for her obvious to anyone who saw them.
Amara sighed. That Deveric had finally found the love he deserved thrilled her. Of course, it did. But it wasn’t for her. Love in 1813 meant marriage, meant giving up everything for one’s husband, meant having children and spending one’s life on trivial things: planning menus, supervising servants, choosing the next ball gown.
She wanted more.
A woman could have both love and career in this time. Many did, including Cat, who’d found great happiness with her husband and her child, but also in running her bookshop.
Amara’s brows knit together. Could she have that kind of relationship? Love and independence?
“Are you coming?”
Matthew had exited the truck and circled to her side, opening the door for her, all while she was lost in thought. He held out his hand. She placed her fingers around his and squeezed, perhaps more forcefully than necessary, but she wasn’t feeling particularly steady on her feet.
His eyebrow quirked up. “Just how much did you have to drink?”
She clutched one arm across her stomach even as she kept hold of his hand. “I am unaccustomed to margaritas.”
“Obviously.” He grinned but dropped her hand.
Her mouth tipped down. Why did the absence bother her so? When she touched him, it was as if a candle flared brightly. When he removed his hand, the flame dimmed, coldness following it.
Amara Mattersley, what is wrong with you, thinking such maudlin thoughts? She was foxed. That was it. That had to be it. An unexpected giggle burst forth. She was well and truly foxed.
She’d wanted to experience the world as men did. She was off to a good start. Or at least an inebriated one. She took a step but stumbled sideways. Matthew caught her immediately, her body pressing into his as she fought for balance. “Whoa, there.”
She clutched his shirtfront and looked up into those icy blue eyes illuminated by a streetlamp. “Sorry, I, uh ... ”
“We’d better get you to bed.”
At his words, her eyes widened, plagued by sudden visions of herself and Matthew entwined upon a mattress, his mouth in the places she’d seen oh-so-briefly in that video.
His own pupils flared. “I’m not sure I want to know what you’re thinking, with how red your cheeks just went,” he muttered, “but I assure you, I didn’t mean it like that.” He tucked her arm through his, and she toddled next to him toward the apartment door.
“Like what?” she asked as they carefully climbed the stairs.
He scowled as he inserted his key in the lock and turned it, the door swinging open in front of them. “You know exactly—”
The meow at his feet interrupted his words, and he reached down to scoop Lovey into his arms, nuzzling her fur.
What I wouldn’t give to be that cat. She sighed, blowing the hair out of her face. Envious of a feline? Absurd.
He carried the cat into the kitchen. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll feed her, then get you some ibuprofen. You’re going to need it.”
She kicked off the heeled shoes Taylor had convinced her to buy. They were far less comfortable when on the feet for hours. Sinking into the sofa, she stared dully into the odd-looking flames of the fireplace on the opposite wall. How had she not noticed a fireplace before? “What’s—what’s wrong with that fire?”
A chuckle emanated from the kitchen. “I’m guessing you’ve never seen an electric fireplace?”
Electric fire? She stood up and wobbled to it, sticking her hand near the flame. Heat roared against her palms, but the fire was all wrong, the colors not right, the crackling noise artificial-sounding. She wrinkled her nose.
“Not your thing, huh?” came his voice at her ear.
When had he entered the room, much less got so close to her?
“Taylor makes fun of it, but this apartment complex has no gas fireplaces, much less real wood-burning ones, so I did what I could.”
She nodded, unsure what to say. Swaying lightly on her feet, she tugged at the neckline of her sweater, uncomfortably warm. Everything spun around her, though in a less pleasant way than an hour ago. She moved toward him and leaned into his shoulder, longing for the support.
He stiffened but didn’t remove her. After a moment, she wound her arms up around his neck, much as she had with the cowboy. Only with Matthew, she could barely reach; he was much taller than she. His eyes darkened, but his hands flew up to cover hers, keeping them from clasping together around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
She should have been embarrassed. She should have pulled away. And yet, she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was the proverbial moth, and he the flame drawing her ever closer. But the flame scorches the moth in the end, Amara.
She didn’t care. She wanted to burn, burn with him, at least for tonight. She wet her lips with her tongue, and his Adam’s apple pulsed as he swallowed. Good. He wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended. “I ... ” she said, her voice hesitant.
He didn’t break the awkward silence, his blue eyes fixed on hers, his mouth unsmiling. Standing on tiptoes, she pressed into him, pulling his head down. He hesitated at first, and then those lips, those entirely luscious masculine lips met hers. The connection was so intense, Amara nearly lost her balance, but his arms reached around, pulling her closer as their mouths moved over each other in a most delicious dance of their own.
His tongue flickered out, and she opened for it, welcoming it, her tongue dueling with his in a battle she didn’t care who won. He groaned, a low noise in the back of his throat, and every inch of her skin stood at attention, her nipples puckering against his chest. His fingers traced their way over her derriere, molding, clasping, holding her against him, and she reveled in it, in the raw need, in the physical sensations racing through her, in the heat and flame and undeniable passion burning between them.
He broke off from her mouth, and she murmured in protest,until his lips traced a path from her jaw to her ear, his warm breath tickling in a way that made her lower regions quiver, sensation pooling low, low in her belly.
“Yes,” she whispered, her fingers clasping his head, holding him to her.
He continued his explorations, his mouth kissing its way down the side of her neck until her breath came in tiny pants, every sense finely attuned to the caress of his lips, those fantastic lips. She moved one of her arms, her hand tracing its way from the rough planes of his cheek along the corded expanse of his neck down to his chest, his hard musculature palpable through his shirt. The man sat at a desk all day long—how did he possess such a chiseled physi
que? She pushed the errant thought out of her mind as he moved up again, his lips capturing hers as his hands molded her flesh.
“My God, Amara,” he murmured against her mouth. She moaned in return. His hand shifted around to her front, up under her sweater, but before he reached her breast, an irritated meow sounded through the room. Matthew abruptly ended the kiss, breaking the circle of her arms as he stepped back. The cat butted his leg, meowing again.
He clasped the back of his head as he stared at her. “No.”
“No?” He didn’t want her? Her eyes drifted down his front, taking in the bulge in his jeans. He did want her, or at least one part of him did. Why had he said no?
“No. You are drunk. I don’t sleep with drunk women incapable of making an informed choice.” He exhaled a heavy gush of air. “And I don’t want to sleep with you, anyway.”
The minute the lie left his lips, he wished he could take it back. Amara’s face crumpled, pain creasing her brow as she cradled her stomach with an arm. Harsh much, Goodson?
He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. But he’d had to put the brakes on. Lord knew he did want to sleep with her. He wanted nothing more than to sleep with her, to bury his hands in that rich honey-brown hair, to lift her up and carry her to his bedroom like a caveman, to lay her across the bed and claim every inch of her. It startled him, this primal response. It scared him, to be honest.
Regardless of how willing she was, he couldn’t. She was drunk, true, and that definitely went against his moral code. But every bit of him screamed that if he slept with this woman, there’d be no going back. She wouldn’t be a quick lay he could forget about by the next evening. No, there was something more to Amara Mattersley, something more to whatever was between them. And that frightened the bejesus out of him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She held a hand up as if to keep him away. “It is good. You are quite correct; relations between us would be a grave error. I had already convinced myself of such; I do apologize for my brazen behavior this evening.”
The Magic of Love Series Page 71
