Page 39 of The Viscount's Promise
“I have said it before and I will say it again, it is no business of yours.” He stepped closer, looming over her in an obvious attempt to force her to a retreat. “But hear me and hear me well. Tristan shall not marry your sister.”
Emily glared up at him. “You may have your reasons, my lord. But so do I. And so you had best get used to the idea. For, despite your wishes, it will happen.”
She turned for the door. He reached out and gripped her arms with both hands, stopping not only her forward movement but also her breath and, seemingly, her heart as well. Her eyes flew to his face as his gloved fingers burned through the sheer sleeves of her gown. She was suddenly transported to that day in the music room, when she had been so sure he had been about to kiss her. She had wanted it so desperately she had fairly ached with the need of it, even long after he had left her.
His eyes skimmed over her face, and in the dark recesses of her mind she remembered his horror when he had pushed her away. But it was a mere echo. All she could feel in that moment was the firmness of his chest pressing into her breasts, his hands on her arms, and the pool of heat that was quickly settling in the very core of her. Their breaths rasped in the quiet of the library, accompanied by the sharp crackle of the fire. Somewhere off in the distance, the sounds of revelry could still be heard, faintly. It was another world. The only real thing was here and now.
“Emily,” he groaned. It was a pained sound, ripped from the very depths of his soul. Her body responded instantly to her name on his lips, molten longing making her breath short, her knees weak with wanting him. Her fingers came up of their own accord and gripped onto his evening coat, crushing the fine material. It was the first time her name, and just her name, had passed his lips. She knew now why societal dictates were so strict on proper decorum, why the use of first names alone was so taboo. Never had she felt so open and raw, so bared to another. It was as if every wall that had been built up between them had been ripped away with that one tortured word.
He bent a bit closer, his face mere inches from hers. Yet he seemed to be doing battle with himself. He fairly shook under her fists. Every inch of him trembled. Her own body—her untutored and innocent body—was responding to it. She pressed a bit closer to him, saw the flare in his eyes. It was not the faint firelight, she knew. No, it was something more primal, something he was fighting with everything in him.
And she was tired of fighting. She was so damned tired of being alone, of being without. The devastating knowledge that she might never, ever have this intimacy with a man again struck her then. Dragging in a deep breath, her senses filled with him, with that wonderfully mouthwatering scent of black tea and leather and soap, underlined with the sweet spice of the brandy he had consumed. She wanted him. More than anything in her life, she wanted this man. With that realization, that the one person who had brought her so much heartache and grief could be the one man her heart and body wanted above all others, she shuddered.
He seemed to regain control of his errant emotions. She could feel it in him, the gradual pulling away. Her heart fairly broke with it. If he left her in that moment, when she wanted him with such raw need, she knew it would destroy her. Of its own accord, her heart spoke in that moment, a mere whisper of a sound that came out like a prayer in the stillness of the room.
“Malcolm.”
His breath escaped him in a long, ragged rush. Then his mouth was on hers, hot and insistent. And there was no time to think. There was only him, and her. She gripped on tight, never wanting to let him go.
Chapter 15
Had she said anything else he could have pulled away from her with a small portion of his sanity intact. But his name in her sweet voice, when she had never before let it pass her lips, was like a drug to his inflamed senses. Nothing would do in that moment but to claim her mouth with his own.
She was like the nectar of the gods. Her mouth opened beneath his, all hot eagerness. He needed no further encouragement. Plunging his tongue between her parted lips, he reveled in her taste, breathed in her very essence. The scent of her, intoxicating and mouthwatering, drifted up to him and seeped into his lungs, driving him wild. He released her arms, moved his hands to her back, pressing her body flush to his. Her delicate spine arched under his touch, making the contact of their bodies that much more potent.
Now that her arms were free, her hands seemed everywhere at once. They roamed over his back, his arms, his shoulders with a sweet abandon that made him groan aloud into her mouth. She shivered, seeming to grow bolder at the proof of his desire. Her fingers delved into his hair, gripping tight. A tingling flashed over his skin, making him hard. Furiously hard. Some primal instinct had him grasping her hips, pulling her closer to press himself into the softness of her belly. Did she feel the effect she had on him? Did she understand what she did to him?
As if she heard the silent questions, she tore her lips free for the briefest moment. “Malcolm.” His name rode her breath, the desperate sound of it hitting him like a punch to the gut. Then her mouth was back on his, fumbling in its exuberance, made all the sweeter for its untrained ardor. Such unrestrained passion he never expected from her. That she, who held herself back with such care from others, shared such a piece of herself with him was glorious.
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was to him, how desirable. That he had never wanted another with such a total loss of control. Instead he took her face in his hands, deepened the kiss, fearful of the emotions that were coursing through him. If possible, she became even more impassioned. And, forgive him, but he took everything she gave and more. His hands moved from her face, skimmed down the long length of her neck, caressed the swell of her breasts.
She gasped into his mouth and arched her back. Her breasts, small yet high and full, pressed into his palm. The warmth of them, their softness, undid him. He needed more.
But he should not be doing this. She was his best friend’s sister, an innocent. And, more importantly, someone he respected and was coming to care for too damn much.
He yanked his lips free. That small burst of willpower, however, was all he could manage. His arms tightened about her, his forehead pressing against her own. Her eyes glinted up at him in the dim light, and he closed his lids against the passion-laced questions lurking in their depths.
“Tell me to stop,” he begged, his voice a hoarse whisper of sound. “Please.”
There was a pause. And then her hand, so small against his face, her fingers curving around his cheek. In the next moment her lips were on his, and the last of his will crumbled. With a groan he ripped off his gloves and dropped them to the floor. Then, hooking one arm about her slender waist, he brought his free hand up and found the neckline of her gown. His fingers dipped below the fabric, trailing over the top curves of her breasts, feeling the velvet soft skin tremble at his caress. Still that was not enough. Without a second’s thought he pulled the bodice low, tugging her shift down with it. She gripped his hair tighter, her tongue twining with his own, a silent plea. And then she was in his hand, her sweet breast filling his palm, and there was no more room to think.
She gasped at the contact and ripped her mouth free of his, her head falling back, one word escaping her lips, low and throaty and full of need.
“Yes.”
Like a starving man, his mouth moved to the arch of her throat, working his way down toward the delectable fruit that filled his palm. Lathing her flesh with his tongue, he let the anticipation build until it could no longer be denied.
When he finally reached her breast and drew her puckered nipple into his mouth, he thought he would burst right then and there from the exquisite pleasure of it. A soft cry escaped her lips, her hands frantic as she grasped his head to her breast. She seemed to sway in his arms and he gripped her tight, one hand pressed between her shoulder blades, the other over the supple roundness of her backside. The soft little gasps that were coming from her, the way she pressed up against him in supplication, made him wilder. He felt if he did not claim her this moment, he would expire on the spot.
He lifted his head, needing to look upon her in that moment, to see with his eyes that she was as affected as he, to hear from her lips that she wanted this. She was achingly lovely, her face flushed in the faint light, her lips moist and parted, her eyes closed. As if sensing his gaze, she opened her eyes then and returned it.
It was the expression on her face that stopped him from dragging her to the ground and taking her right then. Beneath her passion was such trust, such wonder, her bow lips lifted in a shy smile. He knew then that there was something much more than mere physical need driving her. She cared for him. He saw it in the way her gaze caressed his features as if memorizing them, in the gentle touch of her fingers against the nape of his neck.
More importantly, he felt it in his heart, that answering call for something more. It beat hard and strong, a force that demanded an answer, a primal drumming that could only be quieted by her.
Everything in him froze. He was not ready for this, had not meant for any of this to happen. He had given his heart before; he could not give it again. Stepping back, he steadied her and went to work righting her clothes.
“Malcolm?”
