Page 71 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 21
Heaven. He was in heaven. Never had anything felt so right in his life. For the first time he felt a homecoming, like he belonged.
She was all eagerness, her mouth opening beneath his, her arms dragging him close. And her body. He wanted to weep for the gloriousness of her body, barely clothed in a thin cotton nightgown, without stays or layers to bar him from feeling her breasts pressed into his chest, the gentle swell of her belly against his groin, the delicate arch of her spine as he swept his hands down its length to find the flare of her hips.
He pulled his mouth free, ran his lips across her cheek to the long length of her pale throat. “I had to kiss you,” he rasped, skimming his teeth along the sensitive skin below her ear, eliciting a gasp from her. “If I didn’t kiss you this moment, I swear I would have gone mad.”
“I hoped I would find you here,” she breathed, her fingers grasping greedily onto his shoulders, bringing him closer.
The confession nearly buckled his knees. He found her lips again, plundered her mouth, drowning in the smell and taste of her until it was a part of him. She responded, matching every stroke of his tongue, every caress of his hands. He had experienced a taste of her passion before, when he had kissed her in the garden. This, though, was unlike anything he expected from her. Here was Rosalind unleashed, showing him a passion he never knew existed in her.
But even as he began to lose himself, the smaller, saner part of him took hold, reining him in. He forced himself to pull back, thesoft cry of loss tumbling from her lips nearly breaking his resolve. With a shuddering breath and clenched teeth he held himself in check. Barely, but he managed it. He pressed his forehead to hers, knowing if he looked down at her, at the proof of her desire, he would be lost.
“I can’t keep kissing you, Rosalind.” The words were bitter on his tongue, even as her sweet breath fanned his face, further weakening his resolve. “If I do I won’t be able to stop.”
There was silence in the hall, broken only by the rasp of their uneven breath. Then her voice, so soft he barely heard it.
“So don’t stop.”
He let out a shuddering breath, the longing those words brought nearly unmanning him. He clenched his eyes all the tighter, shaking his head, her hair rasping against his. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.” Her voice was stronger now, and unbelievably calm.
He opened his eyes. Surely she was mad to suggest such a thing. After what she had divulged to him tonight, he knew now why she would keep her distance, would hold herself away from men like him.
Yet her eyes were clear, the certainty and trust in them wrapping around his heart.
His resolve began to melt like frost after the first rays of a spring sun. Still he must make her understand what was at stake.
“I won’t be able to keep myself from claiming you. You will be mine, Rosalind.”
“You won’t hurt me, Tristan.” She laid a soft hand against his cheek and smiled. “I know you now. I trust you. Make me yours.”
The remainder of his willpower vanished in an instant. With a groan he pulled her back into his arms, lowered his mouth to hers. Joy sang through his veins as a realization hit him: he loved her. By God, he loved her. Rosalind was his, and he was hers. He belonged to someone.
And he would never let her go.
• • •
Rosalind had known their kiss was getting out of hand. She was smart, after all, could take control of the situation and see that it did not go too far. She had been readying herself to pull away, to put a stop to it, to return to her lonely bed and spend the rest of the night dreaming of what might have been if she had less sense.
But then Tristan had torn his mouth from hers and dragged in that ragged breath. And the vulnerability in his warning to her had gone straight to her heart.
He was not that man she thought he was. Not even close. And she knew in that moment, despite her intentions, she had gone and fallen in love with him.
She, Miss Rosalind Merriweather, a woman of too little trust and too much sense, had gone and fallen for Sir Tristan Crosby, a London rake. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Instead she pulled him closer, running her hands over the incredible breadth of his shoulders, reveling in the strength of him. In answer he swept his arms beneath her, cradling her to his chest and striding to her bedroom. As if from a distance she heard the soft click of the door as he closed it, a metallic rattle as he turned the key in the lock. And then he lowered her feet to the floor, and she was against the door, his body pressing her into the wood panel, every hard inch of him demanding surrender.
She gave it, with a joy she could not remember ever feeling before. Spearing her fingers into the silkiness of his hair, her tongue met his with wild abandon. His hands skimmed down her body, brushing over the sides of her breasts, her waist, her hips. His fingers found purchase behind her knees, hitched her legs up to settle about his hips. He pressed into the cradle there.
Rosalind’s eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth tearing free on a gasp as sensation bombarded her. His lips found her throat, laving the skin there even as he pressed against her, rocking against her most tender flesh. The tension that had been coiling within her wound tighter, until she thought she might shatter. Yet with everypress of him into the core of her, the feeling intensified. How was this bliss possible?
“Rosalind.” His voice was deep, moving through her, a raw and primal thing. “I will stop if you wish, I swear it. For there is no turning back if we finish this. But I beg of you, tell me now while I still have the strength.”
Her heart filled until she thought it might burst. She grabbed his face in her hands, forced him to look her in the eye. And said, with a certainty she felt down to the very depths of her soul, “Don’t stop, Tristan. Please.”
He searched her face, disbelief and desire and longing all coalescing in the blue of his eyes. Realization dawned, and a joy that seemed to match her own. He lowered her, and before her feet had even touched the floor his arms were beneath her, cradling her to his chest as if she were a precious treasure. His steps were long and sure as he carried her to the bed, his arms strong as he lowered her to the mattress, his body hard as he covered her. She opened her arms to him, eager for what was to come next now that she had gotten a taste of it.
“I need to see you.” His words were hot on her skin, scorching her. His fingers found the hem of her gown then. She expected him to yank it off of her in one fluid motion; instead his fingers began a slow climb up her body, grazing her sensitive flesh, exposing her skin to the cool night—and his hot gaze—inch by inch. She lay as still as possible, watching his face the whole while, for the first time doubt creeping in. What would he think of her? She, who was too thin, too small, with hardly a curve in sight. He must be used to voluptuous, desirable women throwing themselves at him daily. She had seen it for herself, seen the beauty and the sultriness of the ladies of society, the women who looked at him with blatant invitation.
