“Bloody hell.” With a growl, William tugged her into his arms, and she reveled in the strength of him. Then he brought his mouth crashing down on hers.
This kiss held an intense edge that sent flutters along every nerve ending. The energy of it awakened the whole of her body. He moved over her mouth in an apparent bid to explore every centimeter. Again and again, he drank from her, introducing, seeking, almost demanding that she kiss him back.
How could she disappoint him? Besides, her inquisitiveness needed attention. Uttering a tiny sigh, Fanny slipped her arms up the hard wall of his chest to twine about the wide, tempting breadth of his shoulders. Oh, they were every bit as wonderful as she’d thought! But she didn’t allow her mind to linger on them, not when she applied herself to kissing him as she tried to mimic what he did. He settled her more comfortably in his embrace and held her close. When the warm tip of his tongue edged along the seam of her lips, she gasped so great was her surprise at the sensation, and he took full advantage. After a few tentative touches, his tongue slid along hers, and she reeled from the potency of that glide of satin on silk, from the tiny fires that caught and burned in her blood.
Why did Jane never tell her how miraculous a kiss could make her feel?
Kissing William was like being caught in a storm and just as powerful. She kissed him as best she could, hoping she made him feel the same. Though her reaction to him frightened her, she relished how his energy fed hers, and she melted further into his embrace. This was what she’d always hoped a romance would contain, and the fact that it came from him instead of the viscount wasn’t lost on her.
Eventually, he wrenched away and set her at arm’s length. His eyes glittered in the dim light; the sound of his breathing was as ragged as her own. He grinned, and a certain smugness lined his face as he looked at her. “Well then.”
She nodded, stumbling slightly when he released her. That kiss had stolen some of the strength from her limbs. “Agreed.” Her lips still tingled, but she couldn’t help giving him a smile. “That was certainly… something.” What did one say to the man who’d kissed her thoroughly, left her heated and unable to catch her breath?
William raked a hand through his hair. “Suffice it to say, you’ll have to choose one of us soon, Francesca. But fair warning, Stormes don’t like to share.”
Did that mean he had a marked interest in her? Because her curiosity demanded it, she dropped her gaze downward to the front of his trousers, but the black fabric and dim light hid any hint of arousal. More’s the pity. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Good.” He winked. “Don’t make plans for tomorrow morning. I want to visit Whitehall’s cellars, where the dead women’s bodies are being held. Afterward, I’ll be at your disposal the remainder of the day.” Then he was gone, and the door clicked quietly closed behind him.
“Oh, my.” Casting about for a chair and not finding one nearby, she sank to the hardwood floor, collapsing into a scandalous heap when her knees could no longer support her. The taffeta fabric of her skirting settled about her legs with a sigh. “What am I supposed to do now? Storms generally don’t lend themselves to being contained in a bottle.”