“You’re naïve if you imagine Miss Smith isn’t aware what we’re doing,” he said dryly. “She’s no fool, that lady.”
“Nonetheless you’re not…having me on the sofa.”
He smiled down at her. “Care to place a wager?”
“You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure of you,” he retorted, and nuzzled her shoulder, pushing aside her bodice.
She trembled, and moisture bloomed between her legs. Her body recognized and welcomed the pressure of his. Her body didn’t care about pride or principle. Her body wanted him to shove up her skirts and take her.
He raised his head, his nostrils flaring. His smile turned deeply sensual, and heavy lids lowered over his eyes. She knew that expression. He meant to take her without delay.
“Ashcroft,” she protested, flattening one hand on his shoulder and pushing.
He didn’t budge. Of course he didn’t. He had no intention of going anywhere. He had every intention of satisfying the lust that lit his face.
How had they come to this? She’d thought to throw him out with a flea in his ear. Instead, she was flat on her back, her body preparing itself in wanton swiftness for his.
“You know you want to.” He settled himself more securely and threw one leanly muscled leg over her skirts.
Somehow, he made himself at ease on the minuscule piece of furniture. She had no idea how. She’d have thought it mathematically impossible.
“You’re such an arrogant ass,” she said with a lamentable lack of force.
“Aren’t I indeed?” he agreed amiably enough.
His new position leaning on one elbow left the other hand free. He brushed her hair back from her face with a gesture whose tenderness made her heart ache.
His hand dipped across her face, down her throat, across the bare skin above her bodice. She knew exactly where he headed. Her skin tightened in anticipation.
His fingers insinuated their way under the gold braid, slipped lower to brush her nipple. The crest tightened. Her hand curled in the soft blue wool of his coat. Her breath came so hard, it emerged in shaky sobs. With her other hand, she grabbed his wrist.
“Should I stop?” he asked with an idleness contradicted by the simmering light in his eyes, hot jade between the thick lashes. He stared at her bosom with a concentration that made gooseflesh break out all over her.
She bit her
lip, knowing if she agreed to his touching her breast, she agreed to this encounter reaching its conclusion.
It was impossible to fight him and herself at the same time.
She should tell him to go. If she insisted, he’d relent. If she insisted as though she really meant it, unlike her pathetic attempts so far. She couldn’t blame him for dismissing those as coy prevarications.
She drew breath, ready to reject him.
Instead, two unsteady words emerged as she released him. “Don’t stop.”
Oh, she was hopeless.
He sighed with satisfaction and plucked at her nipple, shooting vivid sensation through her veins. She shifted restlessly, seeking relief, but nothing quenched the flood of desire.
Still tormenting her breast, he bent his head and kissed her. She responded with all the unspoken, disastrous longing in her heart. She loved him, and she was grimly aware she was running out of time for his kisses.
After a long interval of delight, he wrenched his mouth from hers and rained kisses across her neck. He slid her dress out of the way. The air was cool on her naked skin.
She cried out softly when his lips closed on her nipple, then cried out again when he drew hard. She thrust her fingers into his hair and pressed his head closer.
The sensation was purest torment, purest pleasure. Feverishly, she cupped him. He groaned against her skin and tilted his hips, pressing into her hand. Even through his breeches, he felt like a furnace.