Chapter Nine

P eter fell back and let Heloise kiss him with clumsy, determined ardor. In past liaisons, his lovers had expected him to take the lead. He had been happy to do so, would have said he preferred it that way. But there was something about her boldness that undid him. She gripped his shoulders and slanted her mouth over his, unpracticed but earnest. As they were seated side by side, the angle was awkward. She twisted, delivering haphazard kisses, some of which landed on his mouth, some on his chin. When her impatient lips hit his nostril, Heloise gave a frustrated grunt. She rose up onto her knees, threw a leg over his, and straddled him.

As she settled down on his thighs, their eyes locked. Now that she was seated on his lap, she seemed startled by her own initiative, and uncertain how to proceed. She set her hands softly on his chest, a small, tender pressure. "What shall we do this time?"

"You decide. Focus on whatever would be most beneficial."

Her long white skirts lay over them like a fresh snowbank. The library was quiet, the air full of flashing dust motes and the sound of their uneven breathing. Her scent reached his nose, drifting sweetly from her slightly heated skin. Peter was strung so tightly with erotic anticipation that when she reached out and touched a curious finger to his lips, he had to bite back a moan.

Her fingers ghosted over his face, brushing his temples, stroking over his eyebrow. When she drew her thumb against the grain on his cheek, he knew she was feeling the hint of bristles. He gritted his teeth, and she cupped her hand around his jaw so that the muscles flexed beneath her palm.

"You're very handsome," she murmured.

"Thank you."

It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Women liked his dark features, his brashness, and his intelligence; the term ‘Byronic' had been thrown around. When he wanted to, he could easily find a partner for a night of mutual satisfaction. The encounters were pleasurable, though he often felt as though he was playing a role, that of the passionate scholar making love on cheap sheets in a rented room. He wouldn't have said there was anything wrong with it, had thought it suited him. But Heloise was looking at him as though he were something precious and sacred that had fallen into her lap. Well, she was in his lap at the moment.

"May I touch your hair?" Her hand hovered, and he inclined his head embarrassingly quickly.

"It's soft." She rubbed a few strands between her thumb and forefinger. Then her slim fingers were in his hair, sifting and stroking. Peter's eyes drifted shut. With every pass and gentle tug, ripples of pleasure moved through his body. As she continued, he let out a long, shaky breath. He melted into her like a drunkard, going loose and boneless until she was practically cradling his head against her chest. When she scraped her nails lightly over his scalp, he gave a helpless moan.

Heloise laughed. "I'll make a note that you enjoyed this."

Peter raised his head to find her gazing curiously at him. She put her arms around his neck and toyed with the shorter hair at the nape.

"Is this something you would do with someone you love?" She brushed an errant lock from his forehead, her eyes so bright and vivid that he felt half hypnotized.

"I've no idea."

"What?" She dropped her hands, which was a devastating tragedy. "You mean you've never been in love?"

"No."

"But why? I mean…" she gestured to his face.

Peter tried to ignore how desperately he wanted her to go on touching him. "I'm devoted to my academic career. On top of that, my writing requires time, and solitude. I've nothing to offer a romantic partner. I've been fortunate to enjoy the company of some very lovely women, but none that wanted anything more from me than a little adventure and a story for their diary."

Heloise looked dubious. "That can't be true. Perhaps one did, but you just weren't paying attention."

Peter felt a pang, as though she had wrapped her fingers around his heart and squeezed. She thought it improbable that a woman could share his bed and not fall in love with him. In truth, he had never waited around to find out. He ended each tryst with a shameful sense of relief, too ready to return to the predictable comforts of his quiet, solitary room and his own thoughts. Heloise opened her mouth, but before she could deliver another insightful critique of his character, he slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her.

She slid her hands back into his hair, thank God, running her fingers through and gripping it by the fistful. This time, when he touched his tongue to her bottom lip, she met it with a tentative flick of her own.

He forced himself to go slowly, keeping his kisses undemanding and allowing her to explore. She stroked his tongue with hers, kindling a fire in his belly that heated his veins. She tasted of tea, her mouth pliant and inviting. When he pulled her closer and kissed her more deeply, she made a happy little humming noise in the back of her throat. He was aware of everywhere they touched; the sweet weight of her on his lap, her hands in his hair, and his palms at the small of her back. His fingers flexed, longing to feel her shape under her simple little dress.

Heloise wriggled closer, pressing against him with a moan, and Peter realized she was about to come in contact with the evidence of his arousal. With great regret he broke the kiss, placing gentle hands on her shoulders and separating them.

Heloise slid off his lap and collapsed back onto her half of the Chesterfield. They lay splayed out like starfish, panting and staring into space.

"Did you get your answer?" Peter's voice was thick.

Heloise put a hand to her swollen lips. "I forgot the question."

"Love, lust, and how to tell the difference."

"God, no. The more we kiss, the less I understand."

Peter gave a shaky laugh. Heloise's face was a very pretty shade of pink, framed with whisps of brown hair that had fallen from their pins. He wanted to kiss her all afternoon, wanted to let her cool, inquisitive hands wander freely over his body.

"It can't be love," she said abruptly.

"Why not?"

"Because we don't care for each other, of course."

Her expression was guileless, and he thought, in her peculiar naivete, she had the right of things. Last night, he had sat at the little writing desk in his bedchamber and begun his treatise. He wrote easily and fluidly for several hours, finding himself unusually energized. He imagined returning to the college in triumph, his colleagues gathering round to offer hearty congratulations. He imagined Williams' defeated face, the beaten adversary resigning in disgrace. When Peter had finally fallen into bed, it was with a smile, his heart filled with dreams of victory and justice.

All was proceeding as it should. He would complete his work, she hers, and they would part. The smartest thing they could do was go on not caring for each other in the meantime.