Seven Wicked Nights by Courtney Milan Page B

life. But this notion that all the hurt he’d caused could simply disappear because he
wanted
it to—that had been the last childish dream he’d held on to. He let go of it now. What you did when you were young could kill you. It just might take years to do it.
    “We can still be friends,” she was saying calmly. “Just…not anything else.”
    “Friends.”
    “Even…even back then, there were times I almost thought I could like you.”
    “You are too generous.” The words came out sounding bitter, but he didn’t intend them that way. He wasn’t bitter. He
wasn’t
. Friendship and kindness from her—it was more than he deserved. Less than he wanted, true, but…
    “I haven’t got it in me to give you any more trust than friendship. I’m still not sure I can trust you past three minutes.”
    He swallowed. If he’d been his young self, he’d have stalked away in a fit of pique, furious that she’d thwarted him. He would have had his revenge upon her for rejecting him. But he was a great deal older now. And he’d cast enough shadows.
    “Good.” He leaned closer to her. “Then in three minutes, we can be friends.”
    “Three minutes? Why wait three—”
    “Because friends don’t do this,” he replied, and leaned toward her. This time, he didn’t put his arm immediately about her. His lips touched hers. She was still—too still—and for a moment he thought he’d read her wrongly. But then she kissed him back.
    She tasted like mint and wild honey. She was soft against him. And, oh, how easy it would be to let his control snap. To see precisely what he could do in the three minutes he’d given himself.
    She
liked
kissing him. He could tell by the tenor of her breathing, by the sound she made in her throat as his tongue traced the seam of her lips.
    He could tell because she hadn’t slapped him.
    He set his arm around her and pulled her close. When she opened up to him, it felt even better than any of his fantasies. His mind could only envision one part of her body at a time—lips or breasts or buttocks, but never all three together. But here in the flesh she was a solid armful, an overload of good things. He could not break her down into constituent parts. It was just Elaine leaning against him, Elaine that made that sound in her throat, and then, by God, she moved
closer
, until her chest brushed his. He was on fire for her.
    Still, in the back of his head, he could almost hear the inexorable tick of clockwork, as if this tryst were timed by the watch in this pocket. Three, and his other hand crept down her waist, cupping her close. Two, and his tongue sought hers out. One…
    One kiss, and he’d come to the end of her trust.
    He pulled back. Her fingers had slipped under his elbows, and they bit into his arms, ten little needle points of pressure. He wasn’t sure if she was holding him close or keeping him at arm’s length.
    “Westfeld.” Her voice was just a little rough. “I…I…Please don’t do that again.”
    He wanted to ask if she’d liked it. He already knew the answer. She’d liked it, but he’d reminded her, once again, of drowning. He wanted to curse.
    “No,” he said softly. “We’re simply friends now, and friends don’t do that to each other. Not ever again.”

Chapter Seven

    London, nine months later.
    W HEN W ESTFIELD HAD FIRST OFFERED HER FRIENDSHIP , Elaine hadn’t believed it.
Friendship
was a concept men bandied about to save face when they were rejected.
    But he had nonetheless become her friend. He didn’t dance continual attendance on her, but he talked to her on regular occasion and he made her laugh. He introduced her to his friends—all his friends, that was, save Lady Cosgrove—and he talked with hers. As word spread of what he had said, she simply stopped being an object of fun. For the first time in a decade, she could go to a ball and
breathe
.
    She couldn’t forgive him—how could she?—but was it so awful to enjoy his company?
    “I