Page 17 of My Deceitful Duchess
But it was lovely to be held like this, kissed like it was anactall of its own. Without even the slightest hint of impatience or the presumption that it would lead to anything more. She breathed in sighs, canted her head just a little, and he followed the angle effortlessly, unwilling to surrender the kiss for more than a moment.
Somehow she had ended up plastered to his chest like a common harlot, her breasts mashed against him. Not that he would feel much of them through the thick material of her pelisse. But she could feel the jut of his erection pressed to the soft flesh of her belly. It was impossible not to, with the way he had hauled her up against him.
Not so simple a kiss after all. For either of them, she thought. Thank God he would not be able to see that her nipples had beaded, couldn’t possibly know that she had grown embarrassingly damp between her thighs. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, smoothed back the wispy hairs that had come loose from her pins. How long had it been since she had been touched like this, in a way that went beyond lust?
Too long. And that made him dangerous in a new and terrifying way. More seductive than he could possibly know. The lazy, unhurried way his tongue tangled with hers, an intimate dance to a music that sang along her frazzled nerves—she had no business experiencing such a thing withhim.
A shiver slid down her spine.
“You’re cold.”
No. No, she wasn’t—not even a little. But the husky murmur given to the very corner of her lips had stirred something in a long-forgotten corner of her soul. “Just a bit,” she said, and forced her hands to release him. An unexpected effort, as if her arms had somehow learned the shape of his shoulders in just a few short moments.
He was reluctant to release her. It was there in the aggrieved expression that flitted across his face, the tightness of his jaw—the cling of his hands when she would have drifted down from her toes. His hand drifted from her bottom to between her shoulder blades, as if he thought to tempt her into staying a few more moments.
Something tightened in her throat to hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, the rapid beat that revealed that he had been just as affected. “I will not have an affair with you,” she said against the wool of his coat, as if she could wedge the words between them.
“Do you know,” he said softly, in that magnificent deep voice that slid like velvet over her ears, “I believe you a little less each time you say that.”
Unfortunately, she did as well. It was yet more difficult to peel herself away from him at last, when all she wanted was to stay cradled there against his chest. She had been so cold for so long—was it truly any wonder she was so very drawn to the fire of his eyes, the heat of his hands? Her stomach lurched with the faint suspicion that he could hurt her in ways she could scarcely comprehend. Without even meaning to do so.
She managed to claim a step toward the door, her breath shuddered from her lungs. “This was—”
His hand manacled her wrist. “I swear to God, Jenny, if you saya mistake, I will turn you over my knee.”
A startled laugh burst from her lungs. “I’mfour yearsolder than you—”
“Yes, and quite a good deal smaller. There are many numbers more meaningful than age. Height, for example. Weight. I could heft you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and there would be nothing you could do about it.” It wasn’tquitea threat, but the warning tripped through her like it had been. “I’m not a callow boy, Jenny, however much it might comfort you to think of me as one. Iknowwhat I want. Can you say the same?”
God help her, she didn’tknow. Or perhaps it would have been more honest to say that what shewantedand what she knew to be good for her were infrequent friends. “I don’t know what you expect me to say,” she said.
“It’s not a mistake.” His tight grip loosened, just a little, as if he had realized that the abrupt shift of power between them had made her wary. Perhaps he had let her make assumptions of him, allowed her to think him a harmless man. But she had known, at least, that he was not asimpleone. Complexity simmered below the surface, but she had been taken in by a pretty face, blunt speech, and an unaffected manner. Inexperience was notignorance, and she had been a fool to confuse the two.
“I have to go in.” The words rasped past her dry lips, and still he did not release her. “Mr. Knight—”
“Sebastian.” His thumb pressed over the point of her pulse. “In the morning, bring me a book.”
“A—abook?”
“I’m given to understand that Ambrosia has quite an extensive library. I should like you to bring me a book from it.” His dark eyes shied away from hers, but lingered upon the thrust of her breasts against the fabric of her pelisse, which naturally revealed the quickness of her breaths.
She felt her cheeks burn. “It’s not—it’s notthatsort of library,” she said.
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard what sort of books you keep there. Gone quite a bit past the line of common decency.”
That was a vast understatement. Most of them were not carried in the regular bookshops, where they would have caused quite a furor with their subject matter.Unprintablewould have been the correct term—but they had, nevertheless, been printed.
“Bring me a book,” he repeated. “One that you have enjoyed.” The cut of his smile was sharp, vaguely predatory. How did a man change in a moment from an innocent little bunny into a wolf?
Perhaps he had always been the wolf. Did that makeherthe bunny?
Her fingers flexed, and she had the oddest sensation that he had felt the movement of every muscle beneath her skin. “Mr. Knight, I have to go in.”
“Sebastian.” It was a command comprised of a single word. She had granted him only a kiss, and now, like any man, he demanded more. The intimacy of his name upon her lips. And he would not release her until she acquiesced.
There was the temptation to refuse. To see how long her will could stand against his.
He would have waited until morning, certainly.
