CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two days later

T RAVIS DUMPED THE heavy snowboard in the mud room. He tugged off his boots, and his outer wear, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg.

Once he got down to his shorts and T-shirt to examine the swollen knee though, he swore under his breath.

No wonder it hurt like a bitch.

He’d pushed himself way too hard over the last two days. Boarding from dawn to dusk, then working out in the pool or the gym like a madman to take the edge off a lot more than just his excess energy.

He chugged two heavy-duty painkillers. Keeping out of his wife’s way—since that crack when they’d arrived had made her blush like a nun—had seemed like a smart move. He didn’t know what had possessed him to bring up their one night together again, even as a joke. Perhaps he wasn’t over the rejection as much as he thought. Because each day, after he’d exercised himself into a coma so he could sleep peacefully, he’d still woken up hard and ready for her.

He walked—or rather limped—through the house, heading for the kitchen and the ice machine. The tree lights glittered on the granite flooring, reminding him of her weird reaction when she’d spotted the fir on that first night.

What had that been about? Because he’d seen devastation in her eyes.

His heartbeat slowed. Now he thought about it, her private apartments in the palace had not been decorated, despite Androvia being the Christmas capital of Europe. Did she have some phobia about the season?

He’d considered taking the tree down the next morning. But in the end had decided against the idea. It would be a major job getting the ten-footer out of the house. And he liked it there, because it reminded him of how far he’d come since those Christmases with him and his mom when they’d had to settle for the last scraggy tree on the lot on Christmas Eve.

He should have asked Isabelle what the issue was, but they’d been avoiding each other since that first night—with him boarding all day and only returning to the house at nightfall, by which time she had escaped to her rooms.

He didn’t even know if she’d used any of the facilities. The only signs she was even still here were the meals that had been disappearing, and the empty containers that appeared washed and stacked neatly on the sideboard each evening.

But from the state of his knee, it looked as if he was going to be housebound until after Christmas now. His heartbeat kicked up a notch at the thought of bumping into his invisible house guest. He probably ought to have a conversation with her about their plans for tomorrow, because it was Christmas Eve already and it looked like they were going to be stuck together tomorrow.

Great.

What did royalty do on Christmas? He hoped she wasn’t expecting him to do the catering.

He huffed out an annoyed breath. It had always been just him and his mom on Christmas Day until that final Christmas before she’d died, when he’d messed up. The guilt and grief still hit him on the day itself, so he wasn’t in the mood to socialise.

Having to spend the day with Belle wasn’t going to make him feel any less raw, especially as he knew his mom would have chewed him out for ever agreeing to get married for a business opportunity in the first place.

Not for the first time, he wondered what his mom would have made of Belle.

He pushed down the prickle of disappointment when he found the living room and kitchen empty. Having to deal with her would only be more awkward while dealing with his bum knee.

But as he limped across the living area in the dusky light, a splash from outside had him scanning the pool terrace.

His heart stopped as Isabelle rose from the pool, her blonde hair tied in a knot, wearing just a couple of swatches of lace. Soaking-wet see-through lace, which reminded him of the panties he’d had his hand inside three days ago.

She tugged on a thick dressing gown and grabbed a towel lying on one of the heated loungers. Starting to shiver, she slid her feet into a pair of oversized slippers and shuffled across the terrace as fast as she could.

‘Open the door, please,’ she requested of the house’s integrated system with her typical politeness.

The glass panel slid across, and then back, as she shot into the indoor space. She hadn’t spotted him standing by the tree, his hands braced on the back of one of the couches to take the weight off his leg.

He stood there like a dummy, or the worst kind of peeping Tom, and watched as she shook out her hair. The curls fell in disarray onto her shoulders. His stomach muscles tightened, the familiar heat plunging south, at the memory of releasing her hair from the tangle of pins. The feel of the silky tresses, the sound of her groan as he massaged her scalp and the phantom scent of flowers and her assailed his senses all over again. And the pain in his knee moved north.

She looked as glorious now as she had on their wedding night. Young and fresh and approachable, without the regal reserve she so often cloaked herself with.

As she began to dry her legs with the towel, her full breasts—the rigid nipples poking through her wet bra—played peek-a-boo with the open robe.

She shivered again, then let out a soft laugh. His heart skipped several beats. And the tension in his gut cinched tighter, because her expression was a captivating combination of excitement, exhilaration and mischief—like a kid let out early from school on the first snow day of the semester.

This wasn’t the controlled, unapproachable monarch, this wasn’t even the forthright woman who had skewered him with her logic on the journey here and made him feel like a hot-tempered jerk... This was the other Isabelle, who hid behind both of those. The bold, impulsive girl who loved to ski too fast, who had the throwing arm of a Major League baseball pitcher, who kissed with a passion that could blow his head off—and who had come apart in his arms three nights ago.

His need—and his fascination—made him forget not just the pain in his knee, but all the reasons why he didn’t want her here.

The gruff chuckle came out before he could stop it. Her head rose, the towel slipping out of her hand as surprise crossed her features. But right there with it was the thrill of desire.

Yeah, she felt it, too. The livewire chemistry they’d been trying to ignore by avoiding each other.

‘Travis,’ she whispered, her expression wary as she gathered the robe, cutting off his view of all that delicious skin. ‘You’re back early.’

The fierce need charged through his veins as he watched her eyes darken with arousal.

He’d messed up. That night. They both had. But there had to be a way back from that. Because they had a week left, and he couldn’t think of a better way to get them through a vacation period that they both seemed to have hang-ups about than feeding this incessant hunger.

‘Yeah,’ he said, the husky word scraping his throat. ‘Great swimwear,’ he added, loving the way her pale skin pinkened all the way to her hairline. ‘But don’t wear it for anyone but me.’

Isabelle stared at the man less than five feet away as hot yearning rushed over her chilled skin. He’d been gone yesterday morning at dawn and returned after dark—and as she’d roamed the house alone during the last two days, she had convinced herself his absence was for the best.

But as the ache in her breasts and the glorious heat in her sex pulsed, her heart turned over in her chest. Because she was happy to see him. Excited even.

‘I didn’t wear it for you,’ she said, but the hoarse tone and the thrust of her swollen nipples against her damp bra called her a liar.

She had been bored and stressed without him here—overthinking every aspect of their interactions so far. And miserable at the thought of spending another Christmas alone.

Because something about being in his home, with that huge Christmas tree here, had made the bad memories all the more acute.

‘Oh, yeah.’ His gaze raked down her body, which suddenly felt naked despite the heavy robe.

It’s just sex.

The words echoed again, from that night, when she’d been scared... But not of him, she could see that now. What she had always been scared of was herself. And how much he could make her feel.

But what was she so terrified of? That this could mean more to her than it should? But why should it? When he had such a casual approach to physical intimacy? If it could be just sex for him, why couldn’t it be for her?

Maybe he was right, maybe this would be a good way to make their relationship less stressful, not more so. There was no shame in sleeping with her own husband. And enjoying it. Their union was legal, even if not strictly speaking authentic.

‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit with me,’ she explained, even as the riot of sensations was incinerating her self-control.

‘Tsk-tsk,’ he chastised her. ‘Not very queenly of you to take a dip in your panties.’

She released her arms from around her waist, allowing the robe to fall open again, aware of his gaze gliding over her exposed skin.

She gathered every ounce of courage she had to flirt back. ‘I thought you said you liked my swimwear.’

His gaze sharpened, even as the heat flared between them like a physical force, triggering an endorphin rush that felt as powerful as it was terrifying.

‘Maybe take off the robe, Belle,’ he mused. ‘So I can review it properly.’

Exhilaration combined with panic as she peeled off the robe. It slid down her body to drop onto the warm stone flooring.

Her nipples were so hard they hurt, her breasts swollen and heavy, and the throbbing in her sex catastrophic.

‘Come here,’ he said, the rough command freeing her from the last of her inhibitions.

Stepping out of the slippers, she walked across the room barefoot. But as she reached him, he took his hands off the sofa, and stumbled.

‘Damn it.’ He bent to grip his leg.

‘Travis, what’s wrong?’

But as she came round the sofa, she could see the bruised, swollen flesh around his knee. And gasped.

He braced his hand back on the sofa. ‘I just need some ice. It’s nothing.’

It didn’t look like nothing. But she stopped herself from saying as much because she could see the closed expression. Was he embarrassed at having shown a weakness in front of her?

‘Let me get it.’ All thoughts of seduction fled as she raced to the kitchen in her wet underwear.

By the time she had figured out how to work the refrigerator’s ice machine and filled a freezer bag then wrapped it in a cloth, he had settled himself on the sofa and placed his leg on a leather footrest.

She perched next to him and placed the ice bag gently on the sore knee.

He flinched. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the bag and holding it on his knee.

‘How did you do this?’ she asked, horrified she had been thinking about sexual gratification while he must have been in agony. ‘Did you fall? You should have told me you had injured yourself. I would never have—’

‘It’s okay, Belle,’ he cut into the panic babble. ‘I’m not gonna die from a swollen cruciate ligament... It’s an old injury. The painkillers will kick in soon.’

So the swelling was a legacy of the accident that had destroyed his snowboarding career. Sympathy for him and the injury that had robbed him of so much engulfed her. But before she could offer him her condolences, he brushed the swollen peak pressing against the lace of her bra with his thumb.

She jolted, the dart of pleasure from the light touch immense.

‘The sexual frustration, on the other hand...’ he murmured, the erotic pull in his voice delving deep into her sex. As he played with her, skimming his thumb under her breast, and making her breathing accelerate, a sensual smile spread across his face. ‘Could definitely kill me.’

‘I feel dreadful,’ she said, confused now as well as embarrassed.

‘What for?’ he said. ‘Distracting me?’

He shifted in his seat. And she noticed the impressive bulge in his shorts. He was wearing another pair of those stretchy boxers she remembered from their wedding night—which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

‘In fact, you’re still doing a great job of distracting me.’

‘I should put my robe back on,’ she said, suddenly aware she was practically naked... And so was he. ‘You’re in no condition to pursue this now,’ she said, attempting to be the sensible one.

But as she went to get off the couch, he snagged her wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he murmured.

The smile had gone, the intensity in his expression bringing the riot of sensations back with a vengeance.

She shivered, but it had nothing to do with her wet underwear.

His thumb pressed the thundering pulse point on her wrist. Making her brutally aware of the one still throbbing in her sex.

‘Fire higher,’ he commanded. Warmth enveloped her as the banked flames in the firepit flared. Orange flickers reflected in the dark brown of his irises, turning them to a rich chocolate.

‘I’m in the perfect condition to pursue this, Belle,’ he said his voice hoarse with need now. ‘I want to touch you.’

It didn’t sound like a question. ‘But what about your knee?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of you.’

His eyebrows rose up his forehead, then he chuckled. ‘I’d love you to take advantage of me,’ he said, the fierce light in his eyes brooking no more arguments. ‘But you need to know, stopping again might be a problem this time...’

‘I... I understand,’ she said. And for once she did.

This really didn’t have to be a big deal. At all. She’d made too much of the sex part of the equation, because of her inexperience. More than anything she wanted to see this through now, if only to defuse this terrifying need.

‘But just so you know,’ he added. ‘It’s not my knee that hurts right now.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said.

His eyes flared, dazzling her, as his grin became more than a little feral. ‘Me too,’ he murmured.

Shifting, he slipped one fingertip under her bra strap, eased it off her shoulder. Then dealt with the other. ‘You want to unhook it, Belle?’ he asked. ‘As much as I like the improvised swimwear, I’d prefer you out of it.’

She stood, her heart pressing into her throat. Clumsily, she released the hook and peeled off the wet lace. His gaze intensified and he let out an unsteady breath as the bra dropped to the floor.

‘You’re stunning,’ he murmured.

Her confidence swelled, along with the heat in her abdomen.

She could do this. However inexperienced she was, she could make him ache, too. The thought was so empowering, her excitement soared.

He patted one muscular thigh. ‘Sit on my lap.’

‘But won’t that hurt your leg?’

‘Belle,’ he said, his expression rueful. ‘Believe me, you’ll hurt me a lot more if you don’t.’

She choked out a laugh. ‘Okay, if you’re sure.’

She stepped over him, careful not to jar his sore leg, and settled on top of him, aware of the thick ridge pressing against the molten spot in her panties.

He groaned as she found herself rubbing against it. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Or this is going to be over too soon.’

‘Oh... I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to shift back. But he banded one strong arm around her hips, holding her in place.

‘No, you don’t,’ he murmured, then pulled her closer, to capture one stiff peak between firm lips.

She gasped as he suckled her yearning flesh. The drawing sensation arrowed into her sex, and her back arched, instinctively offering him more. Offering him everything.

He lathed and sucked, playing with one peak and then the other, trapping the swollen flesh against the roof of his mouth, to increase the devastating suction. Until she was rocking against his hips, desperate for relief as the waves climbed higher. And the heat coiled tighter at her core.

His hands found her bottom, those sure fingers diving beneath her panties, until she was riding his lap. She clung to his shoulders, aware of the iron bar in his shorts, pressing against the perfect spot. Liquid heat exploded along her nerve-endings, making her cry out.

She threw her head back as the orgasm ripped through her, fast and furious and unstoppable.

The pleasure battered her until all that was left was the glittering sensation. And the mindless drop into afterglow.

She drifted down, her whole body quivering and humming.

‘Damn but you’re glorious when you come,’ he groaned.

Her eyes opened, to find him watching her with a harsh possessive fury in his eyes that seared her soul.

He pressed his lips to hers in a sensual, provocative kiss.

‘Good?’ he asked, his large palm stroking her hip.

She nodded. ‘Incredible... I’ve never...’ She caught herself just in time, before she blurted out the awful truth. That no one had ever made her feel the way he did. But her heart lurched, thumping her ribs when he smiled lazily.

Just endorphins, Issy. Just sex...

‘You’ve never what?’ he asked.

‘I never expected us to be so good together...’ she lied, trying to sound as if he hadn’t just blown her mind again—completely. And he wasn’t the first man to ever make her want so much.

One dark eyebrow hiked up his forehead. ‘I figured it was kind of obvious from our wedding night we had some serious chemistry...’

She shifted, suddenly uneasy at how much he saw. And how needy—and exposed—she felt.

She glanced down, aware of the thick erection—still rigid between her thighs.

‘What do you want me to do...?’ She paused, cleared her throat, the fierce longing—at the sight of him, so large and hard, for her—not helping her to appear nonchalant, and sophisticated... And not completely overwhelmed.

He let out a strained chuckle, and placed a kiss on her nose, the affectionate gesture not helping with the dryness in her throat, or the thunder of her pulse.

‘I want to be inside you,’ he murmured. ‘But first I’m going to have to limp up to my bedroom and find the condoms.’

‘You don’t need them,’ she blurted out. Then realised her mistake when his brow furrowed.

‘How come?’

‘I’m... I’m on the pill,’ she offered, forced to come clean about the lie.

He tilted his head to one side, then lifted one hand to rub her reddened nipple. ‘How long have you been on it? Are you sure we’re protected?’

‘I... Yes.’ She jolted against that possessive caress, the last of her fear washed away on the wave of longing. ‘I was prescribed contraceptives when I was seventeen, because my cycle was so erratic and the cramps could be crippling.’ The words came out in a rush, the stream of too much information a way to stave off the nerves, and to prevent more questions.

‘My cycle began to impede my schedule of engagements, so the mini pill was considered an effective way to manage my menstruation better and prevent the prospect of having to cancel anything at the last minute... I’m sorry I lied. I...’

‘Shh. It’s okay, Belle.’ He brushed his thumb across her lips, the fierce need in his eyes—which hadn’t faded—making the strange feeling of connection press against her ribs. ‘I get it,’ he added. ‘You weren’t ready on our wedding night. All I need to know is that you are now.’

She swallowed past the lump of emotion. It was a practical question about consent, nothing more. ‘I... Yes, I am.’

He kissed her again, even as his palm landed on her bottom, and edged under her panties. ‘Then we need to be wearing less clothing.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She stood to take off her panties, embarrassed at her gaucheness but trying hard to keep the latest spurt of panic at bay.

But when she turned back to him, he had lost the T-shirt and eased down his shorts... Her heart bounced into her throat and became wedged between her thighs simultaneously.

Oh, my.

She let her gaze drift over his physique, attempting to gather her wits and slow her racing pulse as she took in the strong bulge of muscle and sinew, the toned, tanned flesh, the small scars and imperfections—which only added to the savage masculine beauty of his body. The name tattooed across his pec still fascinated her, as well as the sprinkle of hair that surrounded his nipples, then tapered into a line through washboard abs, which were even more magnificent now, gilded in firelight.

‘You want to sit back on my lap?’ he prompted.

Her gaze lifted to his amused expression. Fire scorched her cheeks. Could he see, did he know, she had never done this before?

Just get on with it, then, Issy.

She forced a smile to her own lips.

‘I’m just admiring the view first,’ she managed. Then reached out to touch him.

He sucked in a breath, his stomach tensing. The long, thick erection thrust upwards, as if it had a life of its own. Had it got even bigger in the last few seconds?

‘You may have to hurry up,’ he muttered, his voice strained. ‘Or I’m seriously gonna embarrass myself here.’

The pained announcement had her own embarrassment fading, to be replaced by the surge of power.

This isn’t hard, Issy, stop overthinking this and go with your instincts.

Luckily, she had a lot of instincts where he was concerned.

She trailed her fingers through his abs—loving the tensile strength, the feel of his skin, soft and warm. She circled a small tattoo on his hip flexor, the badge of the world snowboarding logo somehow captivating her, then—biting into her lip—lifted her finger to touch the bulbous head of his erection.

It jerked towards her touch. She sucked in a breath as he groaned, and a bead of moisture appeared at the tip.

She circled the thick girth, captivated by the velvet softness of his skin, and the contrast with the steel beneath. Her breath clogged in her lungs as she rubbed her thumb across the head. His hips rose and she felt the answering pull in her sex.

What was it going to feel like, to have all that hardness, that length and girth, inside her? It had felt so good with just his finger, but suddenly the urge to feel all of him—as he took her for the first time—was fierce and intense.

She bit harder into her lip as her fingers surrounded him, then drew her fist up and down the thick length, aware of his breathing becoming heavier, and harsher, and more urgent.

But then he gripped her wrist. ‘As much as I’m enjoying that, we need to get to the main event, Belle, before I explode.’

She nodded. And climbed over his lap again, the feeling of power and excitement strengthening her resolve. She sucked in a lungful of his scent—the delicious musk of cedarwood and salt. Going with her instincts, she leaned forward and placed her mouth on his.

He clasped the back of her head and took over, thrusting his tongue deep, even as he lifted her hips and positioned himself at her entrance. She flinched, the pressure at her core painful, but the slickness of her recent orgasm allowed him to slide deep in one thrust.

She groaned, impaled to the hilt.

He swore softly, breaking the kiss. ‘You’re so tight,’ he said, the strain in his voice making her aware of how close to the edge he was too. ‘Are you okay? I’m not hurting you?’

She pressed her face into his neck, her breaths coming out in ragged pants as she struggled to adjust to the pressure, to ease the pain, aware of him so thick inside her, the full, stretched feeling too much.

His fingers threaded into her hair, to pull her head back and force her to meet his gaze. ‘Damn it, Belle, are you a virgin?’

She blinked, wanting to deny it, but he must have seen the truth before she could find the lie.

He let out a stream of curses and dropped his head back against the sofa.

‘I... I’m sorry,’ she managed, ashamed now, as well as sore. But when she tried to lift off him he clasped her hips to keep her in place.

‘Don’t... Don’t move.’

‘But I thought—’ she began.

‘You should have told me, Belle,’ he interrupted her again, the flicker of deep emotion stunning her into silence. ‘But it’s done now, and there’s no undoing it.’

Was he angry with her? It was impossible to tell, and hard to concentrate on anything but the overwhelming feeling of having him inside her. Her sex throbbed, and burned, but when he shifted slightly, fierce pleasure pierced the tenderness.

‘Tell me what you need,’ he said, his voice rough with urgency now.

‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ she replied, hideously exposed.

He swore again, but then he touched his forehead to hers. ‘You’re crucifying me here, Belle,’ he whispered, the tone as raw as she felt.

She wanted to say something, anything. But it was all too much.

He cupped her cheek. ‘Can you move?’ he asked. ‘Without hurting yourself more?’

‘It doesn’t hurt so much now,’ she managed.

‘That’s good,’ he said, the strain in his voice helping to ease her anxiety about his reaction. ‘Why don’t you take the lead, then?’

‘How...? How do you mean?’

His eyes darkened, his focus on her—and only her—making her lungs seize.

Slowly he lifted her hips. Then eased her back down. The renewed jolt of pleasure rippled all the way to her toes.

‘Good?’ he asked.

‘Yes... Good.’

‘Then let’s do that again. You decide how fast, how far you want to go. Whatever feels good, okay?’

‘But what about you?’

He groaned. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m just trying to hang on long enough to give you an orgasm before I lose it completely.’

He looked dazed, drained, and even though the vicious need still pulsed inside her—desperate to be filled—the wave of accomplishment at seeing what she did to him was its own reward.

She eased off him again, then sank back to the hilt. He was still huge, still overwhelming inside her, but the ripples began to build and merge as her clumsy movements became more focussed, more sure.

He moved with her, surging up as she sank down. And gradually, the exquisite pain turned to brutal pleasure.

He reached down to where they joined, finding the heart of her. And the hard pulse of pleasure rose again, harder, faster, more furious, more desperate.

He worked the spot, even as he grew larger inside her—his grunts matching her sobs. The heady wave of sensation rose to slam into her at last. She tumbled over into the abyss, her cries of completion followed by his shout of climax.

She collapsed into his arms, spent now, and worn out.

He shifted against her as she listened to the strong steady beat against her ear—the afterglow like a drug.

Was it supposed to feel this intense? As if she had been changed for ever? How did anyone survive something this intimate without losing their sense of self?

‘You good?’ he asked, not for the first time. But his voice sounded distant, lacking the playfulness and then the fierce passion she had found so beguiling.

She lifted her head off his chest, shocked by the painful clutch of emotion making her ribs hurt. A chill swept through her at his shuttered expression.

He settled his hand on her back, but the touch felt impersonal somehow. ‘You need to dismount,’ he said. ‘My leg’s starting to ache.’

Brutal humiliation chased away the last of the golden glow.

She climbed off his lap, the tenderness in her sex nothing compared to the sore spot in her heart. She scooped up the robe, feeling awkward and unsure, and more naked than she ever had before.

How could she have been so na?ve to believe that throwing herself at this man, having sex with him, would be a simple fix?

He had stood up and put his T-shirt and shorts back on by the time she had tugged on her panties under the robe. But as she went to pass him, to escape to her room, he grasped her wrist.

‘Not so fast, Belle,’ he said.

‘I... I need to shower,’ she replied, trying to tug her arm loose.

‘Don’t you think we ought to have a conversation first?’ he asked, but as before it wasn’t really a question.

‘About what?’ she said, but she already knew from the frown on his face.

‘You know what about,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin until I was inside you?’

She heard it then, the suspicion in his voice, alongside the frustration. She forced herself to push the guilt to one side—and that old familiar feeling of inadequacy that she had spent so much of her childhood conquering.

‘I didn’t think you would care,’ she replied, even though it wasn’t entirely the truth. She hadn’t thought about his reaction because she’d believed she could hide her inexperience, that he wouldn’t know, that he wouldn’t find out. But why had she been so scared of him discovering the truth? What exactly was she so ashamed of?

‘Seriously?’ he said, the brittle cynicism cutting. ‘You don’t think I deserved to know, before I’d done something I couldn’t undo?’

She heard it then, the note of accusation, as if she’d tricked him somehow.

Her own temper sparked, burning away some of the guilt and anxiety. Surely her sexual history was her own to divulge, as she chose. And what exactly was he accusing her of?

‘If you didn’t enjoy it,’ she announced through gritted teeth, ‘I apologise.’

Maybe she’d done something wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time—given the disastrous way their wedding night had ended. But she refused to stand here and let him make her feel less than.

‘You know damn well I enjoyed it,’ he all but snarled. ‘You practically blew my head off. That’s not the point.’

The pulse of heat at his back-handed praise only upset and confused her more.

‘Well, what is the point, then, Travis?’ She threw the words back at him to cover the emptiness inside her, and the hum of arousal that made her feel like a fool.

‘The point is, we were just supposed to be blowing off steam here, but now this... This...’ He jerked his thumb back and forth between them, his gaze dark with a turmoil of emotions. ‘This thing between us is a much bigger deal. And you know it.’

She stared at him.

‘Why is it?’ she asked, hopelessly confused now as well as upset. Why was this a big deal for him?

‘Because I don’t seduce virgins, okay? Because that would make me an even bigger bastard than the son of a—’ The words cut off abruptly, his tanned cheeks darkening with the flush of temper—and emotion.

He swore under his breath. Then raked unsteady fingers through his hair. ‘Forget it.’

Her own anger faded, the shocked, unhappy expression on his face making him seem suddenly vulnerable.

He let go of her wrist and walked away from her, the slight limp making her empathy for him rise up to choke her as she recalled the way he had spoken with such disgust about the father he insisted he had no feelings for.

The man who had taken advantage of his mother by seducing her as a seventeen-year-old virgin.

He stood, alone, looking out at the dark snowy night, his back ramrod-straight, his body rigid with tension. As he fought demons he had pretended not to care about a couple of days ago.

The urge to go to him, to help him conquer those demons, made her heart thunder against her ribs. But she stopped herself from giving in to that urge, however powerful.

The sex had already meant more than it should have—the emotional fall-out still churning inside her, too. And while a part of her wanted desperately to take that haunted, ashamed expression off his face, she knew she couldn’t afford to make herself a part of his struggle. Especially as he had made it clear he didn’t want her to.

So she simply said, ‘I’m not seventeen, Travis. I’m twenty-two. And I understand this can never be more than just sex.’

He didn’t respond, didn’t turn around, his only reaction the way his back muscles tensed.

She turned and walked to the lift, without saying any more.

But as she washed the scent of him off her body in the guest room’s power shower, the raw feeling remained. Her body felt sore, tender, and well used—but also more alive than it had ever felt before.

Worse somehow, though, was the painful regret—that she had hurt him somehow with her silence, without intending to—and that fierce yearning, to know him, to understand him and to nurture the strange connection between them, which she now knew had always been more than just physical for her.

It was a realisation that scared her to her core.