Page 62 of Untaming Lady Violet
Violently. Tenderly. Desperately.
Her gloved fingers tangled in his hair, the strands sliding over the silk material. Suddenly, she wanted to rip the proper accompaniments away. She wanted the feel of his flesh, warm, bare, strong, flexing beneath her palms. But she could not bring herself to stop kissing him, not even for a heartbeat, to strip the gloves from her hands.
A tiny groan escaped her throat when forced to acknowledge a simple fact. The abundance of his clothes almost matched her own. Formal evening coat, tightly fitted waistcoat, cravat, linen shirt, high starched collar, flat-front trousers, braces. All the items were singularly insignificant but, taken as a whole, greatly impeded her ability to discover as much of him as possible.
The kiss grew increasingly wild. Tristan ravaged her mouth, their tongues tangling in an erotic duel while his arms locked around her waist, holding her tight. Not that she wished to escape. When he moved back the slightest bit, Violet eagerly followed so their lips remained sealed. The restraint he showed thrilled her while at the same time, filled her with an odd feeling of frustration.
She wanted him to lose control. With her. With himself. With everything unsaid and undone between them.
Tristan finally placed a bit of space between their bodies. But unable to give her up completely, he bit and nibbled at her lips, his own gloved hands sliding into the intricate updo of her hair. His fingers threatened to pull it all apart, to dislodge the pins and send the entire mass of dark auburn curls tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray.
“Fuck, Violet. We can’t do this here.” His words came out rough.
The unexpected curse sent a sharp pang of excitement dancing along every nerve ending Violet possessed. Whimpering, she pressed even closer.
“I want you, Tristan. I don’t care what happens tomorrow. I don’t care what happens after that. When I am someone’s wife,” Violet said, staring up into his chocolate-brown eyes. “I want this for myself. I-I shall make no claims on you, no demands except this. Show me what fire feels like. Show me what it means to burn under your touch. Show me so I will have it as a memory forever when I shiver from the iciness of another man’s hand. Do this for me. I beg you.”
Tristan’s eyes glowed hotter. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his hands gripped her head tighter, fingers flexing until several pins finally succumbed to pressure. They fell to the ground, lost in the crushed stone like tiny glittery treasures.
A strange mixture of rage and desire emanated from Tristan in rolling waves. It seemed he both hated and loved her words.
Violet shuddered. She’d never felt such undilutedneedbefore.The obsession to experience another’s emotions, to understand them and force it all to the surface. She’d always been one who felt things intensely, whether it be sorrow for someone less fortunate, joy for another’s happiness, or pity for those who were intentionally cruel. But this went far beyond that.
If Tristan suddenly stripped her gown from her and made love to her there on the conservatory floor in a blazing flurry of frustration and regret, she would not stop him. She would revel in it because it would match her own roiling emotions. And if he kissed her tenderly, stroked and cajoled before pressing his body inside hers with sweetness and careful attention, she would accept that, too.
She had become something of a mystery, even to herself in this moment. She wanted this man with no reservations. No shame. No strings. No expectations.
Tristan still watched her, his internal struggle evident in the clench of his jaw and rigid posture. But even more telling was the bulge which ruined the perfect flatness of his trousers.
Violet’s eyes drifted over that part of him pressing against her. Arousal, primal and sharp, jolted her.
He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Maybe more.
Realizing where her gaze had fallen, Tristan let out a strangled groan.
“If you only understood what you are asking me to do, Violet…”
“I do. Well, I don’t understand the particulars of the act, having never done it. But I know I want you. And you want me. And rather than Lord Gadley take what is mine, I choose to give it to you instead.” Her amethyst-colored gaze shimmered with unshed tears. Her hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him into her. “Help me do this, Tristan. Help me before it is ripped away by a man I do not love.”
With those words, her fierce plea, Violet won the battle.
Tristan bore down on her, engulfing her in his embrace, his mouth crushing hers almost painfully. He kissed her until she was breathless and dizzy, until his arms were all that kept her from falling in a boneless heap of desire at his feet.
“Then you are mine, Violet. For a few hours, at least, and what happens between us tonight will remain our secret.”
Chapter 25
Tristan did not speak as he led Violet through servants’ entrances and along corridors most visitors to Darby Meadows were not even aware existed. To be fair, she uttered not a word either, her hand gripping his as though he were a lifeline found in stormy seas.
They avoided detection with the exclusion of two scullery maids. The girls, having just finished their duties, bobbed matching curtsies and turned away. Any curiosity regarding the viscount and the lady accompanying him paled when compared to having their supper and falling into a warm bed.
Higher and higher they climbed until the door to Tristan’s studio was reached.
Tristan turned to Violet, holding both her hands in his. Her eyes met his with solemn determination.
“I would be damned for all eternity if I did not give you one final opportunity to change your mind, Violet.” He wondered at the hoarseness of his own voice. Something deep inside him hoped she would not decide this was a terrible idea after all.
Her head tilted. “This is what I want, Tristan. You may not love me, but I’ll wager you hold far more affection for me than my future husband. I want this with you and only you.”
