Page 65 of Too Sinful to Deny
Then he kissed her.
Not false kisses, or air kisses, or a simple buss to the cheeks. Nor the sort of chaste, closed-mouth kiss, a brief pucker, that one might be able to explain to one’s betrothed—however unsuccessfully—had been a mere trick of the light.
No.
This was his strong hands gripping her upper arms in suspicion and anger, the heat from his muscular frame melting her core in pure lust, and his warm tongue sweeping into her welcoming mouth in nothing short of... desperation? As if he, too, had never put that first kiss from his mind. As if he, too, had lain awake every night, reliving each moment, each taste, each sensation. As if he, too, had been driven to the brink of madness with the overpowering desire to have the weight of her body pressing into his... and never stop.
But then he did stop. Briefly.
He tore his lips from hers and tilted his head back just long enough to say, in a tone deep enough to be intimate yet loud enough to carry, “I thought I told you to meet me behind the stables so no one would know I wished to make you my lover.”
Lover.The word careened through her spinning mind. The entire town had overheard him. She felt a flash of pique. This was his best attempt at rescue? Although at least he’d had the sense to imply it hadn’t come to fruition—yet—her reputation amongst the locals had just gone up in smoke.
Then another word crashed into the first, shattering her vexation:stables.What stables? She was really going to have to start exploring past the town borders.
Then his warm lips were on hers again and the only thing she wanted to explore was his mouth with her tongue, his bare chest with her fingertips, his naked body with her hands and eyes and mouth.
Her back thumped against the dress shop wall. His leg pressed between her thighs, insistent. His hands now tangled in her hair. She should push him away. Surely this was too much, going too far. Surely this—thisfarce—had carried on long enough.
But he didn’t stop. And she didn’t try to make him. In fact, one might suppose that the trembling hands tugging him closer were nothing short of encouraging. One might further suppose that the rush of unchecked desire drowning her brain (and the delicious pulsing between her legs) indicated a distinct state known as rampant sexual arousal. A respectable lady wouldn’t feel such salacious, shocking sensations.
Susan felt them like mad.
This time, she was the one to pull away. Raggedly. Reluctantly. But, at last, successfully. While she still could. She risked a heavy-lidded glance behind him.
Most of the mob had dispersed. Those who remained either wore expressions of shock or disgust, or smirked at her in knowing derision. She hadn’t won any friends today. The population still despised her, if for a wholly different reason.Susan Stanton, village slut.
But at least they weren’t trying to stone her.
“They’re gone?” he murmured, his voice husky, raw.
“They’ve... lessened,” she whispered back. Startled—but not surprised—to discover her hoarse words as laced with unquenched passion as his had been.
He nodded, twined his fingers with hers, tugged her from the wall.
“Let’s go.”
She tightened her hold on his hand and allowed him to lead her away from the dress shop, away from the open window, away from the watchful eyes and leering grins of the remaining townspeople. To a desolate strip of empty beach, well out of the line of fire. Yet they kept walking.
“W-where are you taking me?”
“I don’t know yet. Out of here.” He didn’t slacken his pace. “Why were you spying on the dress shop?”
Susan chewed her lip. So he didn’t doubt it for a second. Well, he wasn’t a fool. The townsfolk might have bought his quick-thinking cover-up, but Mr. Bothwick was waiting on an actual explanation. A good one. Which she did not have.
“The magistrate asked me to.” All right, technically he’d asked her to follow Mr. Bothwick. But that made even less sense. So she mumbled, “Sort of.” And left it at that.
Mr. Bothwick was not leaving it at that. “Forrester asked you to spy on a dress shop? What the devil for? Is he afraid they’re embroidering state secrets into snot rags?”
“Not quite,” she muttered. “He thinks they’ve got French silk.”
“He thinks—” Mr. Bothwick came to a sudden stop. His eyes darkened with confusion, then doubt, then wariness. “He does, does he?” He resumed his previous pace. “What do you figure, Miss Stanton? Do the local girls deal in illegal cloth?”
“Of course they do.” Susan lifted a shoulder. This, at least, was solid ground. “No dressmaker worth her salt would be without all the latest French fashions. Silk is a mere subset.”
Mr. Bothwick watched her, his expression unreadable. “So that’s what you’re going to report back to Forrester? A simple ‘Yes, yes, they do,’ and he’ll be on his way?”
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “He wants to know where it’s from.”
