The fleeting tenderness in his touch kept her mute. Mute and waiting.
It felt like an eternity before he touched her face again, cupping her jaw in his large, capable hand. Still he was gentle, and his gentleness opened a rift in her heart. She’d never allowed herself to long, but this soft caress in the thick darkness made her yearn for a man’s touch as she’d never yearned for anything in her life.
Such power a rake had.
But not even recalling the scandalous stories about Lord Erskine made her demur.
She trembled, waiting.
And still she waited.
Surely a rake wouldn’t allow his prey a chance to reconsider her surrender.
Then the air vibrated in a way she couldn’t define, and his lips glanced across hers. Her muffled response smacked of welcome rather than objection. His hand curled around her arm, and he drew her forward until she angled across his chest, perfectly placed for more kisses.
Another pause.
Before his lips met hers again, she was shaking as if she’d been left out in the snow instead of confined in this cozy den. She should tell him to stop. Kissing Lord Erskine was even more reckless than breaking into his room. But still that treacherous tenderness held her acquiescent.
Tenderness had been tragically rare in her life, and it lured like a warm fire on a cold night. She curled her hands over his shoulders, giving him silent permission to continue. She behaved with shocking wantonness, but right now, she’d readily break any rule as long as this enchantment continued.
This time he lingered. Lord Erskine’s lips were firm and cool. A hint of pressure here. A brief touch there. Everything deepening her need.
The intimacy was astonishing. She caught a hint of his breath, sweet with a rich hint of port. Lord Erskine’s hand sweetly cradled her cheek, making her feel more fragile than glass.
She remained in her right mind enough to recognize that, for all his careful handling, this was seduction. The moment he placed his lips on hers, all impulse to anything except pleasure had vanished.
Before she’d broken into his room, if anyone had suggested that she’d willingly kiss the reprobate Lord Erskin
e, she’d have laughed in their face. Now the prospect of more kisses made her giddy with excitement.
She pulled away a fraction to catch her breath. Her heart pounded a wild tarantella. And when he drew her back to him, her sigh sounded like yes.
Erskine kissed her again and again. Surprise lurked beneath her sensual delight. This rake’s kisses were almost innocent. And astonishing. Prescott had grabbed her arms, holding her still as he thrust a slimy tongue into her mouth. It had been like eating a slug. Erskine’s tongue touched her lips, tasting her delicately, never encroaching inside, although some wicked impulse inside her wished he would push further.
His kisses made her think of butterflies or feathers or silk. Nothing slug-like at all.
At first she appreciated his endless patience, but after an eternity of teasing, urgency subsumed uncertainty. Reaction settled hot and heavy and disturbing in the base of her belly. She longed for more. Although despite Prescott’s clumsy efforts, she had no idea what “more” entailed.
Then Erskine began to kiss her face. Soft, quick kisses to brow and nose and chin. Across her cheeks. To the corners of her lips. More feathers and silk.
Instinctively she licked her lips as he moved on to trace the line of her cheekbones. Tasting him was astonishingly powerful, as though his essence seeped into her blood. She identified the flavors of wine and man and something that she guessed was desire.
Did Lord Erskine desire her?
Once the idea would have appalled her. Once she’d never have credited it was possible. Right now, trembling under a volley of sweet kisses, Philippa wondered if perhaps he did. It made no sense, but since she’d entered this dark cave of a room, the real world had lost its sway over her.
Still he tormented her. A dissatisfied sound welled up from her throat. Philippa wasn’t stupid enough to yield more than kisses, and asking for more risked ruin indeed. But his touch made her restless and yearning. Her skin felt hot and tight, and her heart crashed over and over against her ribs.
His tantalizing seduction drove her mad, changed her into someone she didn’t recognize. This panting girl who welcomed his touch was no longer purposeful, practical Philippa Sanders.
Another incoherent protest emerged. She parted her lips to drag in a shaky breath, and this time his mouth opened over hers. How did he know exactly where to place his lips when she couldn’t see two inches in front of her face? The room was darker than a cellar in Hades.
He groaned into her mouth, and for the first time, she tasted him properly. His rich flavor overwhelmed her. Without thinking where this might lead, her tongue fluttered against his lips, seeking a response.
He groaned again, a sound of longing deep in his throat. At last his arms lashed around her.
She’d reached a stage of need where she wanted him to batter down her resistance, overcome her doubts, kiss her until all she knew was pleasure. The pleasure that still hovered out of reach, no matter how she enjoyed this dance of playful kisses, of advance and retreat, of pausing for permission, then relenting just as she reached the point of protest.