CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

Eight hours later

I F I HAVE to listen to another damn speech, I’m gonna lose what’s left of my ever-loving mind.

Travis Lord tapped his foot under the banqueting table, in the four-centuries-old hall the size of a football field filled with hundreds of people, the vast majority of whom he didn’t know from Adam, and tried to control the frustration, and the energy overload, that had been driving him nuts for hours.

He’d never been good at sitting still for long periods—even in high school he’d been thrown out of class more times than he could count because of the adrenaline that hurtled through his veins when he had to focus on any task for more than thirty minutes straight.

He’d trained himself to stay focussed for longer than that over the past decade—because being the CEO of a multinational brand meant attending a ton of really tedious meetings. Plus, he’d known getting through today’s schedule was going to suck from the outset, but he’d thought he’d prepared—by working out for three hours in the palace’s gym this morning before getting trussed up in this monkey suit.

What he hadn’t factored in, though, and he should have, was being close enough to touch his new bride for eight solid hours without a break. Having to breathe in that tantalising aroma of flowers and female musk, feeling her delicate shivers—every time he pressed his palm to the small of her back, or held her hand for the benefit of their audience—had been bad enough. But for the past two hours, he’d been less than five inches away from her—during ten never-ending courses of cordon bleu cuisine—forced to watch as she took delicate bites of the fancy food or judicious sips of the vintage bubbles, unable to forget exactly what it felt like to have those lips on him.

He stole another glance and took a swift hit to the gut, ramping up his frustration even more... But he couldn’t seem to look away, even for his own sanity.

The embroidered silk gown emphasised every one of her subtle curves, while her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an artful array of jewelled clips and combs that he’d been itching to pull out for hours. He stared again at the single curl that dangled down and caressed the graceful curve of her neck every time she moved. He imagined placing his lips, right there, to lick the spot where her delicate skin pulsed, then sucking it until she moaned. His gaze glided back to her cleavage, her full breasts plumped up against the neckline of her gown, and imagined the corset she’d mentioned at the altar, eight long hours ago, which he’d been obsessing about ever since.

He tore his gaze away and stared at the crowd of guests.

Lifting the spoon from the dessert he hadn’t touched—because the last damn thing he needed right now was a sugar rush—he rapped it against the gold rim of his plate in a vain attempt to distract from the heat in his gut.

One thing was for sure, he should have made more of an effort to control this reaction before today.

Why hadn’t he taken the edge off in the past two months as he’d planned?

He’d known their chemistry was going to be a major issue, ever since that kiss in Sariyelva.

The memory of her livewire reaction had consumed him ever since. Enough that he hadn’t been able to face the thought of hooking up with any of his old dates since having his mouth on Isabelle—even though he was now staring down the barrel of twelve months of enforced celibacy.

And how exactly had he gotten suckered into their weird semi-sexting conversation in the past eight weeks too, which had somehow upped the ante even more?

He still didn’t know what had possessed him to send that first text to her private number. But she’d replied. And he’d begun to prise open the box of polite reserve she wore like a shield to uncover the smart, witty, forthright girl beneath... He hadn’t been able to resist pushing and poking at her for a whole lot more. Until she’d shot the bolt and sent him a middle-finger emoji.

The desire he’d been struggling to control ever since he’d turned to see her walking towards him this morning kicked him in the gut again.

He placed a hand on his own knee to stop the incessant foot tapping as the Androvian prime minister continued to drone on about ‘the wonderful new union between our two countries’.

But then the words Isabelle had whispered to him at the altar shimmered across his consciousness.

‘You lose. I’m wearing a corset.’

And the insistent foot tapping began again.

Damn it, Lord. Time to make a break for it.

He needed to get out of here. Before he got any more fixated on all the ways he wanted to seduce his fake wife on their non-wedding night.

Reaching under the table, he placed his hand on Isabelle’s knee and squeezed. She jolted, and her head swung towards him. The shudder of awareness did nothing to control the pain in his groin... But the delicious blush sprinting across her features—which had only become more vivid as the endless day wore on—was some consolation.

At least he wasn’t the only one suffering.

He leant close to whisper in her ear. ‘I need to leave now, or I’m going to throttle your PM and ruin the wonderful new union between our two countries.’

‘But the schedule is not finished...’ she began—but he could feel her jolt of shock as he rode his hand up her thigh. ‘There is still dancing.’

‘No buts, Belle. And definitely no dancing,’ he added.

‘Why not?’ she asked, her thigh trembling, even as her eyes widened.

Was she really that clueless about what her nearness was doing to him? Surely she couldn’t be? But when she continued to stare at him, her full attention on him for the first time since they’d been at the altar, he decided there was no harm in being straight with her.

They were both adults after all. And while he’d made a deal and intended to stick to it, ever since that kiss, the thought of suggesting a compromise—so they could both work this chemistry out of their systems—was starting to make a lot more sense. They were due to be spending ten nights alone together in Colorado. If he’d been frustrated sitting next to her for eight hours, how the hell was he going to handle a week and a half?

‘I can’t dance, Belle,’ he said, pressing his lips to her ear. Her delicate shudder fuelled his resolve to stop avoiding the obvious. ‘Because I’ve been hard on and off ever since that damn corset comment.’

A hot blush scalded her cheeks, but he could also see the flash of panic in her eyes.

Okay, what now?

Why did she look so shocked? She’d kissed him back that day, and hadn’t they been flirting—after a fashion—for eight weeks via text message?

‘I see,’ she said, biting into her bottom lip—the thought of which had been driving him wild for months, too. ‘I’m sorry... I don’t know why I mentioned that.’

‘Hey.’ He squeezed her thigh then let her go. ‘Don’t apologise.’

He’d thought they’d been on the same page. But maybe they hadn’t been, because she still had that surprised look on her face.

‘It’s not that big a deal,’ he said, even though it was getting bigger by the second. ‘But I want to split now, before I explode.’

She signalled instantly to Arne, the stick-in-the-mud courtier who had been directing the schedule all evening.

The man hastened to her side and bent low. ‘Your Majesty? How can I assist you?’

‘Arne, myself and Mr Lord would like to repair to our private quarters now,’ she said.

Hang on a minute... They were both leaving?

Her face had gone the same shade as the beets his mom had once badgered him to eat. He’d hated them then, but he was liking them a lot more now.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Your Majesty, the event schedule does not conclude until—’ the guy began stiffly.

Travis’s temper spiked. ‘Forget it, Arne,’ he interrupted. ‘We’re out of here.’

Arne went scarlet, but then bowed. ‘Yes, certainly, Your Highness. I will make the necessary arrangements immediately.’

Your Highness?

He cringed, uncomfortable with the form of address all the staff had been using since the wedding.

Arne the stickler backed off—then began directing traffic to facilitate a speedy exit. It took less than ten to get the go-ahead, because Arne was nothing if not efficient.

Travis escorted Isabelle from the banqueting hall—through the throng of people giving them a standing ovation and sending them looks that suggested they knew exactly why they weren’t hanging around.

But as they left the hall, Travis could feel her trembling under his guiding hand. Leaving him wondering again, what was going on?

Had the corset comment been a come-on or not?

Did she want him to strip it off her, as he’d been dreaming of doing all evening? Or did she want to stick to the original deal? She’d kissed him as though her life depended on it in Sariyelva, and their flirty text convo over the last couple of months had exposed more of that girl who intrigued the hell out of him. But she’d barely looked at him since they’d met again at the altar.

The staff finally left them as they reached the door to her private apartments in the palace’s east wing.

‘Alone at last,’ he murmured as he shoved open the door, and she walked into the ornate salon ahead of him.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even look over her shoulder as she walked into the elaborately furnished space. She banded her arms around her waist, her stance rigid, then flinched as he shut the door.

Why did she look like a lamb being led to the slaughter...? Because it was making him feel like an overbearing jerk or, worse, the kind of guy he had always despised. Men like his old man, who seduced women for the hell of it.

He dumped his jacket on one of the overstuffed antique chairs, loosened his cravat—and decided to address the elephant in the room, which was now sitting on his chest.

‘We need to talk, Belle.’

She swung round. ‘About... About what?’ she asked as their gazes locked for the first time since they’d declared their vows. Their fake vows—which didn’t feel quite as fake as they should as she stood there in her wedding dress, trembling like a leaf, her expression a captivating mix of awareness and anxiety.

‘About whether you want to change the terms of this agreement? Or not?’ he asked.

The pulse in her neck beat double time. ‘Which terms are you referring to?’

He yanked off the cravat, undid the top buttons of his dress shirt and frowned, not sure if she was playing games now, or if she was actually serious, because her expression had gone carefully blank.

He wanted her, and he was fairly sure she wanted him. But she was sending him a ton of mixed messages. Messages he needed to decipher before they went any further.

Because, unlike any other woman he’d ever dated, they were going to be stuck together for a year, so he didn’t want to screw this up right off the bat.

He sighed. Plain speaking it was, then.

‘The no-sex terms,’ he said bluntly. ‘What else?’

‘You... You wish to have sex with me?’ Isabelle said, so shocked—and, God help her, excited—by the blunt statement, she didn’t realise how gauche she sounded until his lips quirked.

Her grandmother’s antique Louis XVI armoire creaked as he leant against it, then crossed his arms over that magnificent chest and let out a chuckle—which was so husky it scraped against all her most sensitive spots.

He didn’t answer her for the longest time—making her wonder if he was trying to unnerve her.

‘Yeah,’ he finally replied. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I kind of thought we got that straight downstairs. Isn’t that why you left with me?’

‘No... I...’ The denial choked off in her throat as he crossed his legs at the ankle—making the fabric of his trousers stretch over impressive thigh muscles—and drew her attention to the ridge in his pants.

I’ve been hard on and off ever since that damn corset comment.

She swallowed around the rock in her throat, which had also become wedged between her thighs. She forced her gaze back to his face. He was still watching her. Her nipples drew into tight peaks. Thank goodness, he couldn’t see that reaction thanks to her corset, although...

Stop thinking about the corset.

‘I just... I had to... I couldn’t.’ Her explanation got stuck behind the rock.

For goodness’ sake, Issy, spit it out.

‘I couldn’t not leave with you. This is supposed to be our wedding night. We had to leave together, for appearances’ sake...’ she finished, which was mostly true, except—leaving with him had not been a hardship.

‘Right.’ His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he knew just how much she was lying to herself. ‘Which brings us back to my original question...’

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ she asked, because her grasp of the conversation had become tenuous at best.

‘Do you want to go for a real wedding night to kick off this fake marriage in style?’

Ah yes... That question.

The rock wedged between her thighs grew to impossible proportions.

‘Because I’m thinking we deserve some light relief,’ he continued in that matter-of-fact tone, which made the rock pulse and glow. ‘After the eight-hour show we’ve just had to put on—not to mention the two months of crap we had to deal with to get to this point—don’t you?’

His gaze raked over her and the hot rock pounded.

She should say no. Encouraging a sexual relationship between them would be fraught with all sorts of problems. Problems she had considered insurmountable when they’d agreed to this marriage.

But even though she knew she should reject his suggestion, her tongue refused to cooperate. She was still struggling to give him an answer when Elsa, her lady’s maid, burst into the salon.

‘Your Majesty, would you like me to undress you now?’ the woman asked as she crossed the room, having failed to spot Travis leaning against the armoire.

‘Um...’ Isabelle began, tongue-tied all over again.

‘I don’t think so.’ Travis stepped in front of the maid, blocking her path. ‘Undressing Belle is my job now.’

Isabelle felt a burst of excitement at the commanding tone, but right behind it was embarrassment. Especially when Elsa’s mouth dropped open and she blushed.

‘I’m so sorry, Your Highness,’ Elsa said, addressing Travis, her tone horribly chastened.

Travis frowned at the maid. ‘Yeah, don’t call me that. Mr Lord will do just fine.’

She heard the impatient tone, and his contempt for the title bestowed on him by their marriage, and shame washed over her. Why was she allowing him to speak to her staff like that? She should never have allowed her duty to her throne and her subjects to be obscured by her foolish obsession with this man, who didn’t respect either.

‘It’s okay, Elsa,’ she began, determined to smooth over the awkwardness even though she needed Elsa’s help to get out of this dress. But when the woman began backing out of the room, Isabelle had no choice but to let her leave. ‘I’m sure His Highness and I can manage tonight,’ she added, before Elsa darted out of the door.

Suddenly, they were alone again. The visceral yearning was still there, but the sensual fog that had built up over the past hours had lifted.

‘Now where were we?’ he said, thrusting his fingers through his hair.

At the exact same moment she said, ‘That was uncalled for, frankly—’

‘Frankly, I don’t think so,’ he shot back, interrupting her. ‘You’re entitled to some alone time.’

‘That’s not your call to make...’ she began, annoyed the statement had made her anger soften.

He doesn’t care about you, Issy. He’s just throwing his weight around.

But before she could say more, he rolled up his sleeves—to reveal tanned forearms, covered in a supremely masculine dusting of dark hair that matched the hair peeking out from his open collar.

Isabelle blinked, her indignation momentarily derailed by the realisation she had never seen this much of him before. Him or any man for that matter.

‘Stop changing the subject. You still haven’t given me a straight answer,’ he announced. ‘Are we hooking up tonight or not?’

This time it was a lot easier to find a reply. ‘You actually expect me to sleep with you now? After you were so rude to my staff and—’

‘I guess that’s a no, then,’ he interrupted her tirade. Then he strode across the room and grabbed his jacket. ‘Where am I sleeping? I need to crash.’

Temper sparked and tore at her self-control—its force as unfamiliar as the hot rock still pulsing between her thighs.

‘The main guest bedroom is through there.’ She threw out an arm to point. ‘I believe your luggage is already there. We share a bathroom, so I would appreciate it if you could be prompt,’ she added, wondering how on earth she was going to get out of her dress.

‘I’m gonna need a while in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘So you be prompt. And let me know when you’re done.’ He slung the jacket over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, for ten fun-filled days in Colorado. Not.’

He strolled out without another word.

She stared at the space he had vacated. Furious with herself now as well as him. Why had she behaved like such a ninny all day? Good grief, she’d even considered taking him up on his insulting offer. The last thing she needed was to allow him to demolish what was left of her self-control—simply because he had an itch he wanted to scratch.

She was still fuming when it occurred to her she had a far greater problem than her fake husband’s temper tantrum as she began trying to dismantle the elaborate chignon. Within minutes it had become a tangled mass that would put a bird’s nest to shame.

She wrestled with it, becoming increasingly frustrated and frantic—and only making the mess worse—when three sharp raps made her jump.

‘Time’s up, Your Majesty,’ came the low voice through the door to his bedroom.

‘I’m not finished,’ she said with as much authority as she could muster, while feeling flustered and upset. This was his fault. He’d dismissed her maid and now he was trying to bully her out of her bathroom time.

‘Tough. You’ve been in there over thirty minutes. It’s my turn now.’

What? How could she possibly have been in here half an hour? Surely, he was exaggerating.

But as she stared at her hair in the mirror, the blonde bird’s nest starting to list to one side, she was forced to admit defeat. She hadn’t been able to locate any pins for a while and her scalp was starting to ache. But how was she going to sleep with it like this? Because she needed her sleep, to deal with this infuriating man in the morning.

‘But I haven’t even bathed yet,’ she said, miserable now. Why had she let Elsa leave? When she needed her? It would be humiliating to call her back.

And how had he brought her so low, after only one night?

‘Why not?’ he asked through the door, the tone of arrogant superiority almost as unjust as the snap of self-righteousness and impatience. ‘What the hell have you been doing in there?’

Temper rose up to choke her, obliterating the misery until all she could see was her ruined hair through a red mist of fury.

She marched to the door, flicked the lock, and swung it open.

‘You arrogant bastard,’ she declared, not caring any more about the use of profanity. ‘This!’ She threw her hand up to indicate the mess on her head. ‘This is what I’ve been doing.’

But then the red mist cleared, and shock followed, as she realised he was leaning against the door frame practically naked.

Where were his trousers, and his shoes?

And why did his bare chest, visible through his unbuttoned dress shirt, have to look so magnificent? Was that a tattoo on his left pectoral muscle? Whose name was that scrawled across his heart under a dusting of chest hair? Her gaze trailed down, tracking the tantalising line of hair bisecting ripped abdominal muscles, and hip flexors that made her mouth water, only to land on a pair of stretchy black boxer briefs. The waistband hung low on his lean waist, the legs stretched tight over roped thigh muscles while leaving virtually nothing to the imagination at his crotch.

She swallowed heavily, before she choked. If she had thought that thick ridge was impressive before, it was making her abdomen turn into a lava flow now. Was he erect? Or just extremely well endowed?

‘What the hell happened to your hair?’

The gruff question had her gaze shooting back to his face so fast she almost got whiplash. Horrified heat seared her collarbone.

‘Y-y-you...’ She cleared her throat as the lava flow rose up to incinerate her cheeks—and dry her throat to dust. ‘You happened to it,’ she managed, beyond grateful to discover he had been focussed on her hair and was unaware of her checking out the contents of his boxers.

His gaze dropped to her flaming face. ‘Uh-huh? How exactly is the Leaning Tower of Hair my fault?’

The asinine comment had her anger surging back to cover her mortification. Especially when his gaze roamed over her cleavage again—with that arrogant entitlement that had derailed her common sense earlier in the evening.

Well, he wasn’t going to derail it again, she told herself staunchly. Despite the continuing lava flow from stretchy-boxer-briefs-gate.

She was now fully focussed on her main priority—which involved making this marriage work for the duration of the year they had agreed upon, and not risking torpedoing it for the reckless pursuit of temporary pleasure, which was clearly his priority.

She would have to be the adult here, because it was becoming increasingly obvious Travis Lord had never had to think about anything but himself and the pursuit of his own gratification.

Her spine stiffened with self-righteousness. Unfortunately, even standing tall, it didn’t do much to decrease his massive height advantage, especially when he levered himself off the door, and stared down at her from his full height.

She lifted her chin, so she could glare at him—and not his left pec.

‘It’s your fault because you were so rude and obnoxious to Elsa earlier, she was scared to stay in the same room with you,’ she said, upset all over again at the way he had spoken to her maid. ‘And I’ve never had to do this without her.’

To her utter astonishment though, instead of mocking her for being unable to handle dismantling her own chignon, flags of colour appeared on his tanned cheeks. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I screwed up,’ he murmured. ‘So I called her and apologised.’

‘You... You did ?’ she asked, so surprised by the admission she wasn’t sure she could believe him.

But when he began to speak, his contrition was unmistakable, and disarmed her temper completely.

‘I lost my cool. I’m not great at being on show for eight hours straight,’ he said, the weary tone forcing her to admit she might have misjudged him. After all, she was used to official events, and today had been extremely taxing even for her.

‘But I behaved like a dick and there’s no excuse for that,’ he continued. ‘Plus my mom would have given me hell if she’d ever heard me talk to the help like that...’ He trailed off. The dark sincerity in his gaze—and the mention of his mother, who Isabelle recalled had been a cleaner—made her heart slow and guilt prickle at the back of her throat.

She had misjudged him.

She had assumed he was one of those rich, entitled men who treated the people who worked for them with contempt, and she had disliked him intensely for it—on very little evidence. Which forced her to question her own motivations.

She could see now, she had wanted to judge him because over the last two months—during all those silly texts—she had found his blunt sense of humour so enjoyable, his irreverence so exhilarating and the way he saw her—as a woman and not a queen—impossibly exciting. And it had scared her. Because wanting him to kiss her again, to make love to her even, wasn’t nearly as terrifying as acknowledging how much she had enjoyed his attention and approval.

It would be pathetic if it weren’t so cowardly.

‘I apologised to Arne the Stickler as well,’ he said. ‘Cos I was kind of a dick to him, too.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ she said, humbled by his honesty, and his willingness to admit his mistake not just to her staff but also to her.

He shrugged. ‘You’re welcome, Your Majesty,’ he said with the wry humour that she found incredibly beguiling. As well as annoying.

He stared at the bird’s nest on her head again. ‘How about I take a crack at it?’

The sharp tug under her breastbone at the bold request was complicated by the heat sinking deep into her abdomen.

‘Seems the least I can do after scaring off your maid.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she managed, far too aware of his state of undress and the slow thunder of her heartbeat.

Admitting how much she had come to enjoy certain aspects of his character only made him more dangerous to her peace of mind... And her flagging boundaries.

‘You got a better idea?’ he said. ‘Cos it’s close to midnight now, so hauling Elsa out of bed to do it is only going to make us both look like dicks.’

She huffed out a laugh, despite the rising tension. Why did she find the familiar way he spoke to her so appealing?

She dismissed the sentimental thought. Or tried to. And pressed her palm against the mass of hair, hopelessly aware of his focussed stare as he awaited her answer...

‘It’s okay, I should probably just sleep on it and let Elsa deal with it in the morning. It’s a fairly major job and you’re probably tired too,’ she tried to reason.

‘I’m not that tired,’ he said, the sensual smile having a disturbing effect on her already erratic heartbeat. He captured her wrist—his touch as bold as it was sure—and drew her hand down. ‘Seems like a job I ought to learn, just in case,’ he added, his thumb rubbing casually against the pulse throbbing wildly in her wrist. ‘Even as your fake husband you never know when I might need the experience.’ The slow sensual smile spread. ‘Plus, I’ve been wanting to demolish that hairdo for hours.’

‘I... Really? ’ she said as her sex clenched alarmingly.

‘Yeah. I should probably tell you,’ he said, lifting her hand and opening her fist as he continued to speak in that lazy, husky tone. ‘I’ve acquired a major hair fetish in the last couple months.’

‘You... You have?’ she said, inanely, but unable to think clearly.

‘Uh-huh.’ He pressed a kiss into the centre of her palm.

She jolted as sensation arrowed into her sex. She should object, should tug her hand free, but she appeared to be unable to do anything but inhale the enticing cedarwood scent that clung to him.

‘Kind of perverted, I know, but I think we should work with it.’ Letting go of her hand, he placed his palm on her waist and directed her back into the bathroom.

Stopping in front of the large marble vanity, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards the mirror. He stood behind her, his broad shoulders somehow filling the large bathroom.

‘So where do I start?’ he asked, his tone casual, but the fierce purpose in his gaze as it met hers in the glass staggering her.

She directed her gaze to the rigid tangle of curls and clips and pins—trying to focus on the question, and the task at hand... And not the sight of him—so large and overwhelming behind her.

‘If you could get the rest of the pins out, that would be a big help,’ she murmured, feeling both hopelessly self-conscious, but also strangely exhilarated.

‘Right, here goes. Tell me if it hurts, okay?’

She nodded, watching as he spent some time assessing the damage, then located a pin at her crown. He wiggled it then dragged it free, with infinite patience. Sensation sparked across her scalp, waking up nerve-endings that had been deadened hours ago.

His gaze met hers as he threw the pin on the vanity. ‘One down,’ he said. ‘Only ten thousand to go.’

She chuckled, releasing a little of the tension in her stomach.

‘Hey, don’t laugh, I take my work seriously.’

She smiled, trying not to fall for his charm... Or get too fixated on the muscular torso so close to her back.

True to his word he worked diligently, watching her reaction intently as he located and pulled out each pin, each clip and comb. She stood as still as she could under his care, but it became increasingly difficult with each slow brush of his fingertips, each gentle tug, the silence as he concentrated on freeing her hair only making the task seem more intimate—and arousing.

By the time he had wriggled the final clip loose, her entire scalp had become a riot of sensation, her heartbeat thundering in her chest and echoing in her sex.

How had he made her head an erogenous zone?

He thrust strong fingers into her hair and the heavy mass cascaded onto her shoulders. A moan escaped her as he kneaded her scalp, massaging away the soreness.

‘Better?’ he asked as he dropped his hands to her shoulders.

Their gazes collided in the mirror.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she murmured, aware of his nearness, knowing how much she had enjoyed his ministrations. ‘I should probably go to bed now.’

She went to step away from him, but he held her in place.

‘Hold up,’ he said. His hands skimmed down her bare arms to land on her waist. ‘How about I help you with the dress?’ he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head.

The question sounded innocent, but the wicked light in his eyes as he awaited her answer was anything but.

The throbbing in her sex became unbearable.

‘And the corset?’ he added, with no pretence at all of innocence now. ‘Because I’ve been dreaming of getting you out of that all day.’

The husky comment reverberated through her torso.

Would it be so wrong? To admit how much she wanted to feel those strong hands on her again? A part of her knew this was leading somewhere she had already decided they could not go.

But her previous cowardice came back to taunt her now. The hot weight in her sex impossible to ignore. And all she could do was nod.