Page 45 of Her Beautiful Bastard
He took another step, the press of his body against Lydia’s silencing her. Her voice broke off on a gasp, and she shuddered, though she did nothing to put any distance between them. Sinclair’s entire being seemed to vibrate as if he were an instrument, a plucked string rippling through his body on a long, low note. His cock stirred, his desire rising to mingle with his anger in a tangle so heady, he could not tell one from the other.
“Has he confessed his love for you yet?” he spat, aware he acted the fool, but somehow unable to stop. “It’s a bit early, but Charles always was the sentimental sort. How long do you suppose he will wait before proposing?”
She made a derisive sound in the back of her throat, turning her head to avoid his gaze. “Do not be ridiculous. I have no idea what’s gotten into you, but what occurs between Charles and me is none of your affair.”
Her words struck true, piercing him right through the chest with all the savage effect of a dagger. She was right, damn her, but he would never admit it … could not allow himself to remember just how little claim he had to her.
Reaching up to cup her face, he forced her to look at him, his grip light on her chin. His other arm came around her waist, molding her up against his body, keeping her there.
“Isn’t it?” he murmured, lowering his head so that his lips brushed her forehead. “Tell me you want him, Lydia. Tell me you want Charles, and I will let the matter drop. Say it.”
He kissed his way down the bridge of her nose, then nuzzled it with his own, his lips whispering over hers. She whimpered, sagging in his arms, her eyelids fluttering as she seemed to fight against the sensations.
“I … I …”
“Did you want him to kiss you?” he asked, voice hoarse from the strain of needing to ask but not wanting to know the answer. “Did you want more than a kiss?”
“I wanted …”
He slid his hand back into her hair, fingers closing around her chignon so he could tip her head back, opening her to him, exposing her throat, parting her lips. Another sound emitted from her, this one breathy and helpless, sending even more heat surging straight between his legs.
“I wanted to be kissed,” she murmured, her voice low and throaty, her eyes glassy as if she were half-drunk with need. “I thought if I kissed him, perhaps it might feel good. I thought, if I liked it, that would be enough.”
His stomach twisted itself up even more, his hold on her tightening both in her hair and on her waist, until she whimpered and squirmed. Even still, he did not let go, refused to let go unless she told him to. She was melting into him, her limbs slack, her body pliant and becoming one with his. They could only be closer if he were inside of her, and the thought dragged a groan from him, desperate and tortured.
“What, Lydia?” he urged. “Enough for what?”
“Enough to make me stop wanting you,” she whispered.
The moment the last word had fallen from her lips, he was on her, his mouth seeking hers hungrily. Her moan was muffled by his kiss, an answering sound burning his throat as he kissed her with a wild abandon he’d never thought himself capable of. He nipped at her, biting her lower lip, stroking it with his tongue, then delving inside, consuming her, sating the persistent craving for her taste. She answered in kind, bringing her hands up to clutch the lapels of his coat as she raised up on tiptoe to fit her body against his.
He gave in to the urge to touch her, letting his hands wander down her back, cupping the soft, round buttocks left accessible by the downright indecent breeches clinging to her frame. He could feel every bit of her through them, her luscious arse, the womanly mound between her legs, her supple thighs. It only infuriated him more, knowing that Charles might have been doing this right now if he hadn’t come along—helping himself to the bounty of Lydia’s body, tasting her, plundering what Sinclair coveted every waking hour of every day.
“Tell me you want me,” he commanded, hands tight on her hips as he lifted her clear off the ground.
With a sigh, she wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him as he sank to the ground with her, going to his knees with her on his lap.
“I want you,” she whispered, letting her head fall back as he kissed her chin, her throat, every inch of skin he could access.
“Only me,” he demanded.
“Only you,” she relented, squirming in his lap, giving him delicious friction and pressure where he needed it most. “Always you.”
He practically purred in response, the possessive, jealous beast inside him satisfied with that, pacified by knowing he alone owned her desires. Cupping her arse with both hands, he ground her against him, urging her on as her hips rocked at the rhythm he created, leaving her shuddering and biting her lip to contain little groans of pleasure.
“Say my name, angel,” he demanded, desperate to hear it falling from her lips, tinged with passion. “Even if it’s only this once … I have longed to hear it since the night we met.”
She arched her back, clinging to his neck and riding him, rutting against him in a mindless fit of need. He could feel the heat of her through the layers of his breeches and hers, registered the tension in her body, like a spring pulled taut.
“Sinclair,” she whispered, his name coming out of her mouth on a breathless sigh.
He closed his eyes and absorbed the sound, letting its impact resound through him, sinking into his skin and rippling out to the tips of his fingers and toes. It would haunt every night after this, echoing through his memories and keeping him warm as he slept alone, reviving his dashed hopes.
“Lydia,” he answered, one hand finding its way between them, smoothing down over the buttons of her waistcoat … then lower, lower to the fastenings on the fall of her breeches.
She made a little sound of shock as he loosened one button, then another, and another, opening the garment to access her body. Yet, she did not stop him, allowing him to slip his hand into the opening and find her bare skin. This time, her gasp came out strangled, as if she’d tried to keep it trapped between her lips and had failed. He moaned at the feel of her, his knuckles brushing ever so lightly over the plane of her lower belly, tracking a slow path even lower … until he encountered the downy curls shielding her mons.
“Sinclair?” she whispered, the word now holding a question, a plea.
