The Soldier's Dark Secret

His face paled. ‘What the devil are you implying?’

She had not meant anything in particular. Intent only on silencing his relentless probing, it seemed she had inadvertently struck a raw nerve. It would be dangerous to push him further but it was time to let him sample a little of his own medicine. ‘I have no idea why my mother went to such extremes to make me hate her, but I do know that I need to find out why. I need to understand. I need answers, Jack, while you—you seem so very determined to avoid asking the questions.’

‘What questions?’

There was no mistaking the icy tone in his voice, but she ignored it. She was becoming very interested indeed in how he would respond. ‘What is it that prevents you eating and sleeping? What is it that makes you stop in the middle of a conversation and—and disappear? As if you are no longer there. What is it that makes—?’

‘What is it that stops you from crying, Celeste? What is it that prevents you from admitting that your mother’s death affected you? Ask yourself those, more pertinent questions.’

Jack turned towards the door. Furious, uncaring that she had now achieved her objective, Celeste grabbed his arm. ‘You see, you are running away from the truth. Why won’t you talk about it?’

‘Take your hands off me. Now.’

She had gone too far. She knew it would be insane to push him further, but she knew with certainty that was exactly what she was going to do. Celeste tilted her chin and met his stormy eyes. ‘No.’

She half-expected him to strike her, but he made no such move. Instead, he pulled her towards him until they stood thigh to thigh, chest to chest. She was still angry, but her body responded immediately to the contact with a shiver of delight. ‘I am not afraid of you,’ Celeste said, tilting her head at him.

‘I know,’ Jack said. ‘It’s part of your appeal.’

Chapter Four

Jack’s blood stirred at the first touch of her lips on his. He pulled her tight against him and kissed her more deeply. She returned his kiss with equal fervour. He’d been half-expecting her to slap him. He had kissed her merely to turn the tables on her. Now she was turning the tables back on him, just by reciprocating.

He had been angry. Nay, furious. Now his temper had vanished, burst as easily as a bubble by her touch. A gust of longing twisted his gut. He had not felt desire for such a long time. He could not recall ever feeling desire like this. Nothing to do with abstinence. Everything to do with this woman.

His fingers were shaking as he flattened his hand over her shoulder. This was not what he had intended. She was looking at him, her eyes wide open, watching him. Not afraid of him, though there was something there in her eyes he recognised. Yearning. Yes, and fear of the intensity of that yearning. He ought to stop. She should insist that he stop. He slid his hand down to cup her bottom and kissed her again. He needed, wanted, more. His body demanded it.

Her breathing quickened with his. Her fingers strayed into his hair. Her mouth was on his cheek, her lips warm, soft, little flicks of her tongue on his jaw, the corner of his mouth, licking along his lower lip, nipping, licking, until he could no longer stifle a moan of desire, and she gave an answering sigh.

He abandoned himself to her kisses, to the heat of her touch, to the fever of passion which had him in its iron grip. Their mouths locked. Their tongues thrust and tangled greedily. His hands were on her back, her bottom. Her fingers roamed wildly over him, his back, shoulders, tugging at his coat, clutching at his flanks.

He was achingly hard. He cupped her breasts, frustrated by the layers of her clothing, the impediment of her corsets. He dipped his head to kiss the soft swell of her cleavage, inhaling the sweet smell of her, relishing the shudder of her breath, the rapid beat of her heart, knowing that he had done this to her, that she was doing the same to him.

Their kisses grew ragged. His thirst for her was not remotely quenched. His coat was hanging off by one arm. He shrugged himself free of it, pressing her against the wall of the studio. She moaned, tugging his shirt from his pantaloons, flattening her hands on his back. Her skin on his. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder. His erection throbbed. A long strand of her white-blonde hair had escaped its pins to lie against the biscuit-coloured skin of her bosom.

He had never wanted any woman this much. His erection pressed into her belly. He slid his hand inside the neckline of her gown to envelop the fullness of her breast. When he touched the hard peak of her nipple she cried out, the distinctive sound of a woman on the verge of a climax. He felt the answering tingling in the tip of his shaft that precluded his own. Shocked, he pulled himself free, hazily aware that she was pushing him away.