Page 42 of My Best Friend's Earl
“He hurt you.”
“My—my gown!”
Oliver’s hands shook with the effort it took to slow his movements, lest she feel threatened by his presence. He gently cupped her chin, assessing her features. “Never mind the bloody gown. Where are you hurt?” No scratches or red marks marred her face, although her wet cheeks made him positively feral. Oliver wrenched his attention from the damp trails on her skin to examine her neck, then her shoulders, before running a palm down each arm.
“It’s not even mine!” she wailed. “I borrowed it from Althea. Hattie and I took up the hem to make it fit, and now it’s ruined.”
Confusion hit like ice water on his fiery emotions, making his words rough. “Some scrap of fabric isn’t as important as you are.”
Constance sniffled, swiping at her cheeks. “But it’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever worn. Or it was, until his cuff link caught on the lace. You scared poor Mr. Wellsley witless when you barged in like some invading horde.”
Cuff link? What were his hands doing near her bodice in the first place—which was none of his business, damn it all. Every emotion that had careened through him during the last several minutes—and there were too many to contemplate at the moment—coalesced into something foreign he couldn’t name. “I was defending your honor! Would you rather I ignored some man pawing at you?”
She huffed and rolled her eyes, and Oliver couldn’t believe the audacity of it. Another step brought their chests together, although he was hardly aware of moving.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The only thing in danger was my gown.”
“You were in a closed room with a man, at an event you haven’t been invited to, and you think you weren’t in danger?” The bare flesh of her arms was warm under his hand, then shifted when she gestured toward the lace. However, when he tried to examine the tattered, dangling scrap hanging by a single remaining thread, all he saw were the breasts that had haunted his dreams for weeks. More concerning than the lace was a section of her bodice seam threatening to separate entirely.
“There was no danger, you irritating man!”
“You can’t know that,” he bellowed.
Ignoring the loud reply, she waved off his concern and focused her attention on her neckline. “Of course I can. I know men.” She fingered the scrap of lace. “I might be able to fix this. Replace it with another trim, perhaps.”
How had he lived for so many years and never felt this much before? Oliver battled to regain some semblance of his usual calm, but it was damn near impossible in the face of… her. If he rephrased, would she listen? “Miss Martin, it’s reckless to meet a man alone. Especially at an event you’ve sneaked into, where you don’t have people to help you when you inevitably find trouble.”
God help him, her breasts jiggled when she laughed. “Mr. Wellsley doesn’t want me.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. Every man in that room wanted you.”
“Not every man,” she muttered distractedly, plucking the lace free of its last thread.
A growl wrapped his words. “Everyman, Constance.”
Blue eyes finally lifted to meet his, and held. A distant part of him noted the way they flared wide, then fluttered closed as his mouth covered hers. At the contact, realizing what he’d done, Oliver froze. Was she holding her breath as well? He pulled back, taking in her flushed cheeks, and keenly aware of his drumming pulse, he confessed, “Every single one of them.”
Slender hands lifted to frame his face. A second passed between them, in which her gaze searched his before she pulled him down to her mouth again. Just like every one of his dreams, Oliver sank his fingers into those gold curls and gave himself over to the absolute relief of finally kissing her.
There was no time to worry about technique. Not when she met his lips with such enthusiasm, eagerly learning his mouth, as he did hers. Each of his senses hummed with ragged breaths and moans, the pull of clutching fingers, and the heady scent of warm honeysuckle skin.
Her hair seemed to have a mind of its own, wrapping around his fingers as if to tie them together. She fit against him perfectly. Plump breasts to hard chest. When she rose on her tiptoes, the heat of her core met his hardness, and they both whimpered.
Touching her felt as important as breathing. Memorizing the taste of her mouth and eliciting delicious sounds from her became vital. The need to map her shape pounded at him relentlessly, and Oliver caved to the urge. Gently freeing one hand from her hair took a moment, especially when he refused to leave the heaven of her mouth to see what he was doing.
Oliver groaned when his hand finally traveled down her body to the line of her ribs, the dip of a waist, and then the generous curve of her bum. She rose on her toes again,creating another bout of friction between their hips, then gave a cry of relief when he cupped her bottom and lifted her against him to capture more of the alignment both of them sought.
“More.” Her demand made Oliver want to beat his chest in satisfaction. Instead, he tasted the bare skin of her neck that had so tormented him from across the ballroom. That voice, exactly as it had been in his dreams, threatened to undo him entirely.
Every breath, every pump of blood through his veins, urged him to comply with whatever she asked for. “Anything,” he agreed, far beyond control or reason.
Clothing shifted, exposing the curve of her shoulder. An instinct shook him with the need to sink his teeth into the incredible softness of her and leave evidence of this encounter. To ensure she’d remember his mouth when she looked in the mirror.
Constance tugged her silk bodice until the top of one nipple came into view. The sound she made was one of encouragement, while his was pure desperation.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered reverently. Everything within him that was feral and dangerous, rather than coolly logical, ached to bite and suck. One remaining shred of awareness clung to a certainty that should he give in and fully uncover that breast, there’d be no turning back. No stopping. Years of depriving himself of female companionship would be moot, in the face of this particular pair of breasts.Herbreasts.
At the moment, Oliver couldn’t remember why that would be the wrong choice. In fact, the erection pulsing against the fall of his trousers urged him to listen to the needy sounds Constance made and give them both what they wanted. The way her hips pushed against his, grinding through their clothing told him she was as mindless with arousal as he was.He’d give anything to sink into her heat and lose himself entirely, reality and consequences be damned.
