His voice is…it’s different. Not sharp, because Lorne Lothian doesn’t cut, he doesn’t slice—not even in the courtroom, not even on the other side of a conference room table about to sign the papers for his own divorce.
No, Lorne is like the aged whiskey echoed in the color of his eyes. He pours himself inside you; he burns on the way down. He intoxicates you and thrills you and coaxes himself inside your veins, and before you know it, you’re drunk. You’re drunk with his convictions, his passions, his utter presence, and you’re stumbling with it all, you’re falling down. You’re trying to close your eyes to make the spinning stop and it won’t, it won’t, it won’t.
It’s enough to make a woman beg for sharpness instead. Because a blade will dull over time—but whiskey? Whiskey only gets stronger with age.
And neither of us are young anymore.
“Lorne,” I say. “Stop.”
He stops, although the minute he’s no longer stroking me, I wish he was. Especially when he brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste.
I feel like I can’t breathe. “You’re shameless,” I whisper.
“Better than being ashamed, Morgan le Fay.”
“Don’t call me that name,” I say.
I miss you calling me that name; I miss it every day.
“And I’m not ashamed.”
We’re still stepping and spinning, but at some point, Lorne maneuvered us to the periphery of the dancing. “I think you are,” he says. “I think you’re so ashamed that you can’t even speak your desires out loud. I think you’re so ashamed that you’d rather divorce a man than admit you want him.”
I stop dancing, glaring up at him. His hand is still on my ass. “Is that what this is about? The divorce?”
A smile under his mask. “Not the divorce, no.”
“Sure feels like it,” I mumble.
“Can’t a man dance with his ex-wife? Can’t he play under her skirt a little?” To emphasize his point, he pulls me close—close enough that my thighs have to part around his. And the pressure of that muscular, tuxedo-clad thigh against my pussy nearly undoes me. I slump against him and pant like an animal in heat.
This was why I divorced him. He makes me drunk, and he makes me senseless. He slides into my soul and whispers my secret desires back to me. He wants my control—my surrender—and I can’t give it to him. I can’t give it to anyone.
Except you want to, don’t you?
That’s what you couldn’t admit in the car.
After all these years, you want something different, and you’re afraid.
“Come here, sweet witch,” he says, releasing me from his arms, but taking my hand in his and guiding us to one of the mossy alcoves in the ballroom. Living branches arc above us, hung with lights and flowers, and a gauzy fabric hangs like curtains around us. We aren’t invisible, but we are mostly hidden, and it’s hard not to feel that we are in some kind of fairy glen, alone in a forest.
But I can’t be alone with Lorne, I think as he turns and faces me. I can’t, I can’t, because I will drink him all down, I will tumble right into those scotch-colored eyes and drown.
“I can’t do this,” I say, my voice shaking. “Like I said—I’m meeting someone, and I can’t—”
I can’t get lost in you again. It terrifies me.
“Why are you meeting someone here, at a party in Bishop’s Landing?” Lorne asks, folding his arms and leaning against the ballroom wall behind him. “Why, Morgan, when I know you could ensorcel any Lyonesse submissive you wanted into bending the rules for you?”
I don’t want a submissive.
“I don’t fuck club subs,” I say instead.
Lorne levels a look at me like he sees right through my deflections, which he probably does. He always has. “So instead of literally any other option, you asked a former assassin to set you up on a date.”
“Mark is the most discreet person any of us know, and anyway, it’s not like there’s a hookup app for vice presidents.”
Lorne’s posture doesn’t change. His voice stays the same. And yet there’s something different when he speaks. “You could have called me.”
I try to mirror his posture and lean against the wall too, except the damn wings—and fuck—my dress. With a hiss of pain as the burning and prickling renews itself on my backside, I straighten up again. “I didn’t call you for a very obvious reason.”
“That we’re divorced?” He gives me an expression like I’m being