On what could only have been characterized as a low growl, he reached out and caressed her cheek before running his fingers along the nape of her neck. With a few quick movements, her hair was tumbling about her shoulders and down her back.
The dark intention in his eyes… Gone was the light-hearted Rory and in his place was a man whose utter command of the moment sent lightning to hidden places only he could touch.
If his gaze could do all that, what more could his body do?
His hand continued to trail down the column of her neck…along the line of her clavicle…lower still to the small mound of a breast, fingertips grazing a hardened nipple through fabric. She gasped.
A wicked smile tipped at his mouth. “You like that, do you?”
“Yes,” she rasped. Only the truth would get her what she wanted.
More of his touch.
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he pulled her to him. His head lowered, her parted mouth angled up, and their lips met. And all the while, his fingers hadn’t left her nipples—far from it. They’d slid beneath her bodice and were now squeezing the hardened tips, pleasure blazing through her to unexpected places, encouraging a wildness inside her.
Her hands raked through his hair, grabbing hold as she pressed up against the long, thick mass of his body. His body, however, wasn’t the only long and thick part of him. His manhood was certainly making its presence known.
But, oh, his kiss… The way his firm mouth claimed hers possessed a force behind it, but not too much force. A drive…a will… The same drive and will demanding she follow this path where it led. She couldn’t become lost, for she was with him.
He pulled back. Her eyes startled open, indignation flaring through her. “You haven’t my permission to—”
“Shh.” He placed a quieting finger over her mouth. She might feel indignant about that, too. “Trust me.”
She searched his eyes and found utter confidence there. She nodded.
A flash of a wicked smile, and he took her hips in hand and swiveled her around. Of a sudden, she felt vulnerable and strangely exposed, though she remained clothed. There was a tug on her dress, then another. He was untying the laces. Then he was pushing the garment down her body, leaving her clothed in naught more than chemise, stockings, and slippers.
“No corset?”
“One wasn’t necessary.”
Next the thin muslin of her chemise was sliding up her body. Instinctively, she lifted her arms to allow it over her head, her hair following before succumbing to gravity, the ends meeting the upper curve of her derrière with a swish. She might’ve heard another growl. Then his hands were on her lower back, nudging her forward—toward the bed.
Once she reached it, his hand fell away. “Do you still trust me?”
“Entirely.”
He pushed her hair to the side and kissed the nape of her neck, his breath warm and humid. Goose bumps raced across her skin, lifting the fine hairs of her arms, tightening her nipples into hard buds.
His presence, behind her, felt sensual…and slightly wicked…
She felt a kiss lower, and lower still, his hands clutching her hips, steadying her, as he trailed kisses down her spine. She tipped forward to brace herself on the bed and a chuckle sounded. “You naughty lass.”
And it occurred to her: Lord Rory Macbeth, the Viscount Kilmuir, the nicest man she knew, had a penchant for wickedness.
In the bedroom.
To quote him, the realization made her feel all lit up inside.
She could be her most wicked self with him.
The idea appealed, even as she felt vulnerable and exposed.
Another contradictory bundle.
He cupped her bottom, taking a cheek in each hand. “You have the sweetest round arse in all Creation.” He kissed one cheek, then the other. Down legs gone trembly with desire his kisses trailed. Every touch of his lips sent twin shivers of pleasure and ache rioting through her. She wanted this—his mouth…his large, capable hands…upon her—but she wantedmore, somehow.
She squeezed her thighs together.