Page 65 of Dearest Beast
“And what precisely are you controlling?” she asked, as hers was gone as well, bearing her perverse desire to provoke him. Well, for more than that, but provoke was all she was permitted. “Urges?” she suggested. “Of the animalistic variety?”
“You’re very…” His eyes narrowed, but he did not halt his approach.
“Difficult?” she suggested, meeting him once again, close enough to nearly feel, not merely see, the rise and fall of his chest.
“That wasn’t the word I was going to use.” Leaning down, he reached out and stroked down her cheek, then took her chin in his hand, tilting it up toward him.
Yes, please, every part of her, save her head—the part that was still thankfully clinging to power—pleaded.
“What, then?” she asked, her body standing at attention, waiting, begging.
“Naughty,” he whispered then turned away from her and strolled toward the door. “Good night, Rebecca,” he called as he exited.
Rebecca stood for a long moment in the center of the most beautiful room she’d ever beheld, a lump welling in her throat, feeling as if she’d somehow lost.
Ridiculous.
She’d lost nothing. She was in no different a position than she’d been a few hours ago. Or truly, when they’d had the conversation for which he’d just apologized.
They did not and would never suit.
Certainly not for marriage. They saw the world and what was valuable within it completely differently. Rebecca pressed her lips together for a moment as she recalled the relief in the man’s eyes when his daughter had been found.
Mostly.
Yet all the knowledge, all the logic in the world, could not seem to make her body cease, well, wanting his.
Worse, the knowledge of his impending betrothal did not quench the desire. Instead, by the mere fact that it placed a deadline on the man’s unattached status, the knowledge that a repeat performance would be impossible in a few weeks added an urgency to her lust.
No, she didn’t need it, and it would almost certainly cause her harm, but she knew exactly what she wanted and unfortunately possessed the right sort of mind to craft an argument to justify it to herself, the means to skirt most of the consequences.
Proceeding to the exit, she moved through the corridor, not to the guest bed chamber but to the staircase to her workshop.
Yes, she knew what she wanted, and in approximately two hours, she would have to decide whether she was brave—or foolish—enough to chase it.
After god only knows how long he’d spent staring at the bed-curtains, arguing the merits of finding a way to repress the ill-advised desires the conversation with Miss Adler had renewed in his body, or taking care of them himself, followed by another hour of guilt over his lack of facility with their own languages and text, as well as quite a few clever excuses for the same, Roger managed to find sleep—only to be awakened once more by a sharp creak, as the door to his bedchamber inched open.
With a groan, he flopped onto his side, blinking through the darkness. What time was it? It couldn’t be after four.
This better be important. He’d been in the middle of an inappropriate but very nice dream—the nicest he’d had in a long time. Not that he could quite remember it, but it most certainly, and most inconveniently, involved Miss Adler. Not in the Lira library, but in his. And not merely talking this time. He’d been sprawled on one of the more comfortable chairs, his legs spread, her in between, his falls open, and that smart mouth—squeak. The hinges on the door groaned as it opened wider. Roger yawned, forcing himself back into reality, disappointing as that might be.
He could not confuse the two. His dreams were the only place such inclinations could be exercised. If that. No matter how thrilling it had been to confirm that she did not regret what had previously transpired between them. That it had indeed been as good for her asit was for him. Even if they were impossible in the life he was supposed to lead.
He just had to find a way to live with that knowledge after she left and he married Leone Teres.
Which he would. Though it’d be a great deal harder without proper sleep.
“Lopez,” he whispered. “What’s going on?” he asked, praying the man wasn’t there to tell him another staff member had quit or he’d lost another ally on the Commission or Miss Teres had run off with some Ashkenazi upstart who was now in the lead for Narbonne’s seat, or something worse that he hadn’t thought of yet.
“It’s not Lopez,” a voice whispered. The door slid shut with a click. Roger sat up in bed, squinting through the shadows as his eyes adjusted, his gaze finally falling on a now familiar form.
“Miss Adler?” he asked, pulling a pillow onto his lap, working to channel his thoughts toward her in an appropriate direction. “Is everything all right? Are you ill?”
“No.” She shook her head, her night braid bouncing off the shoulder of her chemise. Her very thin chemise, which she’d not bothered to cover with a dressing gown. It was so thin that, even without proper light, he could make out the outline of her very pert nipples, which he most certainly shouldn’t be staring at (nor thanking their creator for making cold exist—why no one had included such a blessing in the Birkot haShachar was beyond him).
“May I come in?” she asked, interrupting his cycling thoughts.
“I think you’re already in,” he said, pulling the coverlet higher. “What’s wrong?”
