Page 30 of Untaming Lady Violet
He brushed his nose alongside hers and breathed deep. “Your pulse thumping against my fingertips wherever I touch you. The silky smoothness of your skin. I smell your perfume, and I know what florals created it. I see your mouth trembling in terror because youwantmy kiss but think it’s wrong that you do. I see and feeleverythingabout you, Violet Everstone. Everything. And I’m telling you to slap me again because I do not possess the right to know these things.”
“I don’t understand!” Violet shuddered within the circle of his arms. “Why do you antagonize me so cruelly, then demand such things? I’m sorry I struck you. I’m sorry— “
“Christ above,” Tristan swore under his breath. His expression turned so fierce he looked like a marauding pirate intent on ravishing her. “I’ll untame you if it’s the last thing I do. If it ruins me or both of us, I don’t care. For your own good, I’m giving you a reason to do as I say.”
“Untame me?” she whispered in confusion. “What are you talking about? “
Tristan’s mouth swooped down, covering hers. Cutting off words and breath and rational thinking. This kiss wasn’t gentle, or hesitant, or patient. It was soul-stealing. Hard. Demanding. Consuming.
Glorious.
Violet moaned into his mouth as the pressure increased. His tongue delved past the barrier of her teeth. Like a flame, it whipped the inside of her mouth, tangling with her own tongue, branding and igniting every bit of her until Violet felt like a flame, too. Tristan did not just kiss her. He devoured her. And she let him feast because she was starving for him as well.
No longer content with being stationary, his hands roamed her restrained curves as if on a treasure hunt. From the indentation of her waist, up her sides to the ticklish hollow under her arms, then around to her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine. He explored every fabric-covered inch with greedy fingers before moving back to the delicate framework of her exposed collarbone.
With the precision of a scalpel, Tristan’s fingers traced the line of bone from one side to the other. They dipped into the well of her throat and brushed over her rapid pulse, stroking softly as if painting her. Then those artist fingers drifted down. Down to the undercurve of her breasts where the flesh caught within the cage of the corset molded to the palm of his hand.
The manmade contraption yielded to force as Violet arched her back, desperately offering more if he would only take it.
So, he did. His fingers boldly dipped inside her bodice, breaching lace and silk and whalebone until they gained the prize. Bare skin. The upper swell of creamy flesh. Then… an aching, pebbled nipple squeezed between thumb and forefinger with such exquisite purpose that Violet’s entire being melted in astonished surrender.
Had he not braced her against the terrace wall, leaning her backward so her body was offered like a feast for the gods, she might have slipped to the floor. But Tristan had her skillfully trapped, one knee pressed between her legs, the other bracing her from the side. With a hand down the front of her dress, his other curved into a grip on her shoulder blade, providing support even as he made her tumble to pieces.
“Will you strike me now?” he breathed, tearing his mouth from hers finally, staring down at her as though she were the only creature worth seeing in the entire universe. His fingers pinched her again, twisting the hardened nub of her nipple until fireworks exploded somewhere inside her. “Will you make me stop?”
“I-I cannot.” Violet’s hands buried in the thick velvet of his hair. It was soft and luxurious, sliding through her fingers like sheaths of expensive fabric.
Tristan groaned in defeat. His head fell forward, his mouth latching onto her neck, kissing and biting the slender column until a blissful euphoria overtook Violet.
She couldn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. Why would she when he was doing such marvelous things with his mouth and teeth? Why wouldn’t she want those lips of his exploring where he pleased? Nibbling and claiming the pieces already conquered with his fingers?
“You are a goddamn witch, Violet. And I’ll burn in hell because I can’t stop thinking about the things I’ll do to you,” Tristan murmured, blazing a trail of fiery kisses across the exposed expanse of her décolletage. “Even when you become another man’s wife, I’ll still remember how sweet you tasted on my lips.”
The words sliced through the hazy, dreamy web of desire drowning Violet.
Another man’s wife.
She shuddered. Bile rose and ebbed in her throat, evidence of her own disgust for her weakness.
Yes, one day she would belong to someone else. Not Tristan Buchanan, Viscount Longleigh. No, she would never be his. He didn’t care enough about any woman to attach himself for a lifetime of matrimony. The only exception being that of Grace Willsdown before Nicholas March snatched her away and claimed her as his.
Tristan certainly did not care abouther.Violet served as a distraction. An amusement keeping his boredom at bay while he was trapped at his parents’ estate.
A chill washed over Violet, scattering goosebumps across her skin. Tristan kissed her neck, her chest, her shoulders, unaware she’d sobered with his muttered statement. He still believed she lay cradled within the palm of his hand, ready to grant him all he desired for the price of a kiss.
“Stop,” she said in a low voice.
She was nearly betrothed to another man, and yet, she kissed Tristan with fully engaged passion. What manner of woman was she? How could he make her abandon her own morals so easily? So quickly? This careless, heartless, cavalier man possessed a dangerous power.
He could make her forget who she was.
And who was she?
Quiet, sensible, rational Violet.
At least, that’s who she used to be… and it was who she could pretend to be if Viscount Longleigh would keep his distance.
“Convince me that I must,” he returned, biting her shoulder with sharp teeth before lavishing the spot with a hot, open-mouthed kiss.
