Page 31 of The Duke's Sinful Deal
Maxwell did not answer immediately. And the air in the room shifted again, the earlier edge of irritation giving way to something heavier, something that settled deeper, closer to the skin.
Arabella became aware of it at once.
Of him.
Of the space between them.
Of the way his gaze had changed, no longer dismissive, no longer detached.
She swallowed, probably louder than she wished.
“As I said, you need not concern yourself with the details tonight,” he said at last, though his voice had lowered, the steadiness of it now carrying something beneath it.
“You said we would not—” she began, then stopped, her breath catching slightly as he took a step closer.
“Yes, I said we would not lie together tonight,” he corrected.
The distinction was subtle.
Arabella did not move, though every instinct urged her to either step back or close the distance entirely. She did neither, caught somewhere between the two.
“Then what is it that you intend?” she asked, quieter now.
Maxwell’s gaze held hers for a moment longer, as though weighing something, before it shifted, briefly, to her mouth, then back again.
“To ensure,” he said, “that you are not unprepared when the time comes.” The words sent a ripple of uncertainty through her, though not entirely unwelcome.
“I am not afraid,” she said, though her voice betrayed her slightly.
“I did not say you were.”
He took another step toward her and now stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, even through the thin fabric of her gown, close enough that the firelight caught in his eyes in a way that made them seem darker.
Arabella’s breath slowed, then quickened again, uneven.
“You are trembling,” he observed.
“I am not,” she insisted, though she was.
His hand lifted.
She did not expect the way it paused, just short of touching her, as though giving her time to refuse. And when she did not, the contact, when it came, was light. It sent a shock through her all the same.
Arabella drew in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening at her sides as something unfamiliar stirred beneath her composure,something she could not name, something she was not certain she wished to understand.
“This is not necessary,” she said, though the protest lacked conviction.
His hand shifted, not hurried, not forceful, but certain. The room seemed to narrow around them, the fire’s warmth pressing closer, the silence deepening until even her own breath sounded too loud.
Arabella’s thoughts scattered, slipping away from her one by one, replaced by sensation, by awareness, by something that coiled low and unfamiliar and undeniably present.
“You are right,” he agreed quietly. “It is not.”
The space between them had already narrowed to nothing, though neither of them had named it aloud.
Arabella’s breath came unsteady as Maxwell’s hand remained at her waist, steadying rather than claiming, as though he were allowing her time to retreat. She did not. The firelight flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows that made the room feel smaller, more intimate, as though the world beyond it had ceased to exist.
He moved then, slower this time, in a way that made her acutely aware of every inch of space between them. The light fabric of her gown did little to dull the sensation of his rough handstraveling up and down her body, and Arabella felt her breath catch again.
