She didn’t respond. But she was listening. I could see it in the alert way she followed my movements, the way her lips pressed together at my words.

I decided it was time to be even more honest. I had been thinking about this arrangement for a solid week now, and I had grown used to its unusual proportions and conditions. But I also appreciated that this was a lot for her to take in at once.

I stepped closer to her, expecting her to step back. But she didn’t; she stayed where she was, even when I got so close that I could feel my shoes brushing against her skirt.

“I look at Thomas and at Charlotte, I see the life they have, and I want that, Molly. I don’t want to be the playboy any more. I don’t want to fuck forgettable women and drink too much and let my years pass me by. I’m thirty-five, and I’m too old to ignore how empty I feel. I want more.”

The pulse jumped in her throat as her eyes flicked to mine. There was something there, something in those blue depths that reached out to me. A sympathy or an empathy or something—she knew how I felt. And maybe she felt the same way.

“And I know now,” I continued quietly, “that I don’t deserve to have the love of a woman. Not like Julian and Thomas have with their women. But maybe, just maybe, I can be a good father. Maybe I can have the rest, even if I can’t have the marital bliss.”

Her eyes closed for a moment, her dark red lashes resting against her cheek, and God, I wanted to touch her again. I wanted her to tell me that I was wrong, that I did deserve to have the love of a woman and that I could somehow work to deserve hers again.

I wanted it more than anything.

But instead, she opened her eyes and shook her head. “No, Silas. I will not be your womb for hire.”

Disappointment crashed heavy and cold into my stomach. I bit my lip and her gaze followed the motion. I was still hard, and the only thing I wanted more than her saying yes to my unconventional proposal was her saying yes to me lifting her skirts and devouring her pussy until she couldn’t stand anymore.

I didn’t pressure women into anything—proposals, sex, dancing, card games, anything—mostly because I’d never had to, but also because that wasn’t me. I liked being easygoing. I liked avoiding conflict. I had told myself on the way here that if she said no, I would simply have to bear it up and leave. That I would honor her wishes.

But now that I was here, staring at the long arch of her throat and the blood-colored hair running over one shoulder, at those blue eyes so sad and strong and tired, I couldn’t give up on her. I couldn’t let her go that easily. Even if I didn’t love her anymore, I had to face the fact that I wanted her. I had to face all the crass, caveman-like images wanting her conjured. I wanted her to be my mate, and the idea of another man claiming her instead made me see crimson splotches of rage.

I had to face it: no matter how wrong it was, I couldn’t give up on marrying her. Not yet.

“Am I allowed to try to change your mind?” I said, leaning in so that my lips were near her ear.

She shivered, goose bumps prickling along her shoulders and arms, and I smiled grimly to myself. She wanted me still. After everything.

“Answer me, darling. Am I allowed to persuade you to marry me?”

My lips were at the shell of her ear now, and I nipped at her earlobe, drawing my teeth along the soft skin there before replacing them with my tongue.

She let out a half sigh, half moan.

“Maybe,” she breathed, as I let my mouth wander down her neck, licking and savoring and sucking, her skin sweet and clean with the slightest hint of salt. It tasted better than I remembered, which made me think about the other things I had tasted and wanted to taste again. “Maybe,” she repeated and then gave a little gasp as I gently bit her throat.

Good.

“Give me a safe word, Molly.”

“W-what?” she stammered, and I loved that my mouth on her skin made her incoherent. Maybe I had a shot at winning her hand after all.

“Give me a safe word. A signal. And when you use it, I will stop, no questions asked.”

“We’re not having sex tonight,” she said, but she didn’t sound very sure of herself, and her addition of the word tonight… I noted that and continued kissing her neck, working my way over to the other side and kissing up to her jaw.

“It isn’t for sex. It’s for pursuit.”

She pulled back a little, her eyes narrowing as she tried to parse my meaning.

My hand found her skirts and I began pulling on the silk, lifting it up to her waist. “If I court you, if I try to marry you, I am going to use every dirty, filthy trick I know. If I try to win your hand, I am not going to play fair.” Skirts up, petticoats raised, I dropped my other hand to run up the outside of her thigh. And then the inside.

Her legs fell apart and she slumped against the wall, her eyes fluttering closed once more as my fingers crept closer and closer to where we both wanted them most.

“For example,” I murmured, “I could do this—” I swept my fingers up and across the soft flesh of her mound, carefully avoiding her inner folds or her clit, savoring the almost pained sigh she gave me. “And I could promise to put my mouth down there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You would give me anything right now so long as I gave you my mouth in return.”

A little noise escaped her, and then—my own self-control faltering—I cupped her. Hard. And even without penetrating her, I could feel how wet she was—dripping and slick—and fuck, my cock hurt. I wanted to make this woman come, and then I wanted to stick my cock inside of that swollen, tender flesh and drive away all the doubt and pain and blame we’d built around each other. I would tear it all down until she came like a quivering shot around me, and then I would fist her hair and press my crown against her mouth and make her lap up my cum as I pulsed it onto her lips.

I pressed a finger inside of her. She cried out, squirming, trying to grind her pussy down onto my hand. “How long has it been since you’ve let a man really fuck you, Mary Margaret? I know you’ve ridden men, I know you’ve used them, but how long since you’ve let a man use you?”

I slid my finger in deeper and added a second one, rubbing her hard with the heel of my palm. She was panting.

“How long?” I asked, wondering for a minute at my stern voice, at my almost-cruel words, but then she answered and I stopped caring how cruel I seemed.

“No one since you,” she whispered.

I crooked my finger, creating friction against her favorite spot, and her knees buckled. I caught her by the throat, wishing I could somehow freeze the flash of fear and lust in her eyes, freeze it like a painting and then hang it on my wall.

God, this woman.

This woman.

She was making me forget that I wasn’t supposed to be in love with her. She was making me forget that charming, happy, playful Silas would never grab a woman by the throat, never finger her without her express consent and yet here I was, doing it anyway.

“See, my love?” I said, my fingers still curled around that gorgeous throat, my other hand rubbing her into a squirming and wet state of ecstasy. “See how I won’t play fair? See how I’ll touch you and tease you? See how I’ll fuck you into giving me what I want?”

Her eyes flashed—indignation, perhaps, or maybe protest—but at that moment I squeezed her neck and ground my palm harder against her, and then a shuddering, buckling, slippery orgasm consumed everything in her. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened, a gasp for air that she could still get around my harsh grip but not without the illusion of struggle. And her sweet, wet cunt—I could feel it fluttering around my finger and all I wanted on this earth was to feel that fluttering on my tongue, one last time.