“I have to go,” I said abruptly and pulled away from Hugh. Thankfully, he didn’t fight me, and we exited the dance floor. I was shaking with adrenaline and rage and—Mother Mary help me, lust.
Overpowering, flaming, burning, scorching lust.
Stop. Think.
But I couldn’t. I was too furious and too aroused, and the two sensations were so intertwined that I couldn’t begin to peel them apart. Because how dare he fucking come here, to England, how dare he show his face in this house again, the very house where he’d broken my heart? And how dare he look so delicious and tempting in his tailored tuxedo, laughing as if he hadn’t a care in the world? I wanted to scratch his back until it bled, I wanted to slap his face until my hand stung, I wanted him to pin my arms behind my back and bend me over and—
No.
Molly O’Flaherty didn’t let men bend her over. She didn’t let men fuck her—she fucked them, she rode them until she came and then she was done. And certainly she didn’t let Silas do either of those things. Not any more.
My feet moved where my mind could not—away from Silas. I pushed angrily through the crowd, finally emerging onto the wide steps leading down to the Baron’s garden, gulping the still-warm night air as if it were gin—which was something I desperately needed right now.
“Molly?” Hugh asked. “Would you like to leave?”
I braced my hands on the railing, looking out over the wide expanse of the Baron’s estate, low green grass studded with bursts of flowers and capped by a large hedge maze at the end. “No,” I said firmly. I didn’t bother pretending I was upset about something else; there wasn’t a fashionable soul in London who didn’t know what had happened between Silas and me last year, and that included my would-be suitors. “I was here first. I am not leaving because of him.”
“Well, you shouldn’t talk to him,” Hugh advised. “Let’s just avoid him for the rest of the night. And I can find out from the Baron how long he plans on staying in London.”
I hadn’t even thought that far ahead—that he must be staying here in London, that all of my regular haunts might be extra haunted.
And now he was making me feel like I needed to hide in my own city—damn him!
My anger crystallized into something hard and cool. “Thank you, Hugh,” I said calmly. “I so appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
He gave me a small smile, the kind that could easily be called smug.
I laid a hand on his forearm. “Do you mind getting me another drink? The dancing overheated me.”
“Of course.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek, a gesture that felt oddly proprietary. I clenched my teeth together but made no reaction until he walked away, and then I gave the flagstones one hard stomp under my dress, like a little girl throwing a tantrum.
I didn’t want to be kissed, I didn’t want to be coddled, I didn’t want to marry Hugh and I didn’t want Silas to be here. I stomped my foot one last time, shook my shoulders to rid myself of the rest of my anger, and then stepped back into the ballroom, my face schooled into a placid mask.
I would find Silas. I would tell him to leave. And that would be the end of it. The end of my thrumming pulse and the end of the balled need in the pit of my stomach.
The night had grown late enough that some of the more unique elements of the Baron’s parties were beginning to show. Skin uncovered, hair unbound. Dancing turning to kissing, kissing to fondling. I used to thrive in the midst of this, I used to be the princess of this scene, but now it merely irritated me. All these people basking in their frivolity, their escapism, and me stuck with my powerless, joyless future.
I pushed past them all until I reached the end of the ballroom, where I’d last seen Silas. I couldn’t find him, and for a moment, I thought perhaps he’d left, and my heart soared at the same time as it split apart and withered.
“—Provence is always beautiful, although not as beautiful as you, darling.”
I froze. And turned.
And right behind me, surrounded by a group of young tittering women that I didn’t know, was Silas.
From this vantage, I could see the way his dinner jacket stretched across his wide shoulders. The way it tapered into his lean hips, hips that had once dug into my thighs, hips that I had bitten and licked and tickled. I could see where the smooth skin of his neck met the dark brown of his hair. I could see the angle of his cheek as he turned to survey the dance floor. His cheek was dusted ever so faintly with stubble, which was unusual for him, and unfortunate for me, because it only highlighted those high cheekbones and the square-carved symmetry of his jaw.
I swallowed. It didn’t matter how square his jaw was or how delicious that neck would taste against my tongue. He was not welcome here.
I strode forward and touched his shoulder, opening my mouth to speak the words, but then he spun and his eyes were so goddamn blue. His eyebrows lifted as if he were about to grin that beautiful, terrible grin, and instead of speaking, I raised my hand and hit him across the face as hard as I could.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Molly slapped me. I deserved it, for one, and for another, the look we’d exchanged on the ballroom floor earlier had not boded well for our reunion. Not because she’d looked angry when our eyes met, but because she’d looked hurt.
What was surprising about the slap, however, was my reaction. I’d never been a man who’d liked things rough. I liked things pleasant and fun and easy. But in those three days I’d spent with Molly last year, something had happened. I had been fiercer and rougher with her than I had been with anyone ever before. And she—she had let me do things I would have never thought Molly O’Flaherty capable of letting be done to her.
And so when her palm sent fire stinging across my cheek, my dick thickened and my stomach tightened and something like a growl came out of my chest. And before I knew it, I was hauling her away from the crowd, my fingers wrapped around her wrist, the soles of her dancing shoes hissing against the polished wood as I pulled and she fought.
“Let go,” she snarled, and since we had reached my destination—a small curtained nook near the foyer—I obeyed.
She crammed herself into the corner, silk bunching around her legs, and I yanked the curtains shut.
“How dare you—” she started, and then I strode forward and sealed my mouth over hers, swallowing her words along with the sigh that followed, a sigh that was anger and pain and surrender all in one.
Her mouth tasted like champagne and cinnamon, her lips were soft—softer than I remembered—but warm. When I parted them, her tongue was a slide of silk and heat, a sensation that went straight to my cock. It throbbed for that tongue, for that hot mouth. It wanted to violate her…again and again and again.
Molly’s face tilted up to mine, exposing her throat, and I don’t know how my hand found it, just that it did. And my hand caressed the smooth white column of her neck before I cupped her nape to keep her face tight to my own.
She pulled back, gasping, her breaths forcing her tits against her corset. I was so fucking hard right then, I swore I could feel every beat of my pulse in my dick.
“Don’t touch me,” she managed, trying to catch her breath. Her pupils were wide black pools and her lips were swollen. I dropped my hand from her neck.
I had no idea why I had dragged her off like a caveman or why I’d felt the need to brand her with such a possessive kiss. It had come from some dark place inside of me that I was unfamiliar with, despite the fact I’d seen it last year when I’d been with Molly. It had laid dormant since, but now that I was with her again, now that I had those pert, small breasts in front of me and all that scarlet, silken hair, and that adorable smattering of freckles across her nose—it flared back to life, roaring.