An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,71

be at leisure, one always felt a pressure to be worthy of it, to match it. And so she felt a little sorry for Dalton.

“So this is your house.”

“It’s where I sleep.”

“My voice is echoing in your foyer,” she said with a laugh. Which echoed. “It’s like the duke’s castle but with electric lights and central heating and running water.”

“I have all the modern conveniences. Would you like a tour?”

“I’m not here to see your house, Wes.”

She reached out for the lapels on his jacket, pulled him close, and lifted her mouth to claim his.

“Not wasting any time,” he murmured as he broke the kiss to press his mouth to the curve of her neck.

“I think we’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you?”

“You have no idea.” He pulled out her hairpins and they skittered across the marble floor. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Then he started on her dress, right here in the foyer.

Are you ready for what comes next?

Yes, God, yes.

She coyly undid the buttons on his vest. But then she ripped open his shirt, and buttons went flying. She laughed and the sound echoed. But she wasn’t laughing anymore when she slid her palms against the firm planes of his chest. She lowered her head to tease one of his nipples with her tongue; his sharp hiss of breath made her feel like a queen.

“Beatrice,” he murmured. “Bedroom.”

And they stumbled their way there. Kissing. Undressing, leaving a scattered trail of clothes and things from the foyer, up the grand curving staircase, along the second-floor landing. And then her back was up against a heavy wooden door, Dalton’s hands at her waist, his mouth claiming hers, her dress in a state of disarray, her heart pumping wildly.

And the night was only just getting started.

Years. Years Dalton had waited for this moment. Beatrice in his bedroom. Beatrice reaching out for him, her gaze so nakedly dark with desire for him. Beatrice touching him. Beatrice lifting her mouth to his for a kiss. He felt desired. He felt desire. He felt proud, triumphant even, to have this woman in his mansion, like he was finally worthy of her.

When it came down to it, he felt chosen.

It had all been for her.

He never really wanted revenge.

It had always been about the girl.

He had done nothing but work for sixteen years, all on the rare chance this moment could be real and not just a fantasy.

Years.

Now Beatrice was in his bedroom and they were going to make love.

He thought he might explode. The tightness in his chest. The suppressed roar in his throat. The pounding of his heart and the throbbing of his cock. He’d never felt so much, all at once.

He shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt, or what was left of it.

The removal of her dress was more complicated.

Nevertheless, he persisted.

For a moment he just looked at her, skin aglow in the moonlight. Puddles of silk and satin on the floor.

She said these things about her freedom, yet she was here and her lips were close and there was no mistaking the desire in her eyes. She wanted him. Just as much as she wanted her independence—but not more.

Her lips, inches from his.

Could he be content with something even if it wasn’t everything?

Dalton honestly didn’t know, but it was a risk he was going to take.

Especially when her hair tumbled around her shoulders and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. Hot, sweet, dangerous all at once.

Sixteen years. One did not get this close and then slink off to sleep in the guest bedroom. Not when she brazenly toyed with the waistband of his trousers. Not when she looked at him like she’d been hungering for him for years. Not when she teased him with kisses.

So Dalton kissed her back.

He slid his hand around her waist, urging her against him to close that last little distance between them. He breathed her in and it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest, the pounding of his heart, or the throbbing of his cock. Touching her only made him feel more.

“I fantasized about this,” he whispered. “You. Me. Here.”

She touched him, tracing her delicate duchess hands across his bare chest, lower. She was touching him brazenly, possessively.

I’m yours, he thought. For better or for worse.

And so began the clumsy, backward waltz toward the bed. Falling back in a tangle of limbs and kisses and pent-up feelings of desire. He wanted her