Page 42 of Project Duchess
As he laid his arm over the front of her waist again, her breathing grew ragged and her stomach trembled, making other parts of him catch fire . . . especially the parts that craved the touch of her hand. Which was pretty much all of them.
Best to finish the lesson quickly. So as soon as they were situated properly, he moved them into the next step by essentially forcing her hands into the position while saying, “Then slowly we turn to face forward as we slide our hands across—”
“Oh, yes!” she cried with relief in her voice. “I’ve got it now.”
“Good. Let’s start it once more from where we were, but with the music.”
She nodded as he shifted them backward into their former provocative position. Then she began to hum.
It was all he could do to take up his instructions at the next part. “We walk forward together one step and back one step, before we separate to circle around behind the couples and go to the end of the line.”
Stupid as it seemed, when they parted, he felt keenly the loss of her . . . though they’d only moved a few feet due to being in the alcove, and no one stood between them as would happen if other people were dancing, too.
As if drawn by an invisible thread, he approached her once more. “After we’re at the end of the line, we face each other and start the steps again in our new place. Bow, join hands, et cetera. That’s the dance in a nutshell.”
She stopped humming, looking reluctant to have reached the end. “I see.”
“Let’s go back to the beginning. This time we can practice it with the music uninterrupted, to make sure you have the steps down. What do you think, sweetheart?”
When her gaze warmed on him, he cursed himself for letting the endearment slip. Fortunately, she merely said, “Why not?”
His blood roared through his veins. They both knew this wasn’t about practicing. It was about wanting more stolen, reckless moments alone together. Even though nothing could come of it. Even though Grey knew it was insanity.
So much for keeping his wits about him. That was difficult when she was so refreshingly genuine. Truthful.
Intoxicating.
Yet he took the appropriate position once more, fully determined to make hay while the sun shone in her face.
He counted, and they bowed in time before clasping hands. The next few steps went well. She was following his lead perfectly without him having to utter a single instruction.
When they reached those turns where they were intimately entwined, he forgot everything except the lilting sound of her humming and the feel of her waist going taut beneath his arm. As they twirled slowly, one pair of hands touching in the air, the other pair half caressing each other’s waists, he saw only her face and the sensual awareness pooling in her big brown eyes, threatening to drown all his resolutions.
After a moment, she murmured, “I’ve lost count of how many turns we’ve made.”
The words only half broke the spell she’d cast over him. “So have I.”
Yet they kept turning.
“Are we still even dancing ‘Jenny’s Market’?” Her voice was breathy, her eyes wide with arousal.
It mirrored his own. “Not quite.” Lowering his mouth to within a hairbreadth of hers, he said, “I believe musicians would call this a variation upon the dance.”
He hovered there a moment to give her a chance to protest what they both knew he meant to do. Then he covered her mouth with his, exulting in how she rose to his kiss with all the eagerness of a woman newly discovering her power over a man. Which was obviously considerable, since he couldn’t seem to stop tasting her lips, despite the warnings his conscience screamed at him.
And once she opened her mouth to let him plunge his tongue inside, even his conscience fell silent. Waves of hunger swamping him, he brought one hand up and the other down so he could clasp her head and kiss her deeply, thoroughly. She tasted of oranges and smelled of rosewater, a heady mixture surprisingly feminine for a woman said to be a hoyden. Willingly he sank into its dangerous depths.
And every time he came up for air, he had to go back in, over and over until he thought he might explode if he couldn’t touch her more intimately. So he staved off that urge by kissing her closed eyelids, the curve of her cheek, the sweet shell of her ear.
But kisses weren’t enough. He wanted to fondle her, entice her as she was enticing him. Even as he pressed his lips to her temple, he slipped his hands to her shoulders and kneaded them through her flimsy gown in an attempt to resist doing what he mustn’t—tracing a path down to her breasts so he could caress the forbidden parts of her.
“I rather . . . like this variation on the dance,” she said.
So did he, God save him. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “Shall I improve upon it?”
The pulse in her temple quickened beneath his lips. “I don’t see how you can.”
“I can do whatever you wish,” he rasped, in a deliberate echo of her words earlier.
