Page 12 of The Hunter
That shadow became theirs as they claimed the darkness.
Gasping, Millie found herself pressed against the wall, imprisoned between it and Bentley Drummle’s unyielding torso.
A willing prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless.
Lord, she never did this. Certainly, she’d stolen a few kisses, or gifted them as favors. She’d shamelessly flirted, openly admired, and even allowed the pursuit of men on occasion. But never like this. Publicly, with a man she barely knew whom she didn’t need to charm for money or gain.
Just pleasure.
He stood like that for a moment, or it could have been an eternity. Their breath mingling in the darkness. Wine and port and desire.
She couldn’t see his face clearly, backlit as it was by the chandelier that cast a halo around his vibrant hair. Millie knew for a certainty that neither of them were angels, and with a man as mysterious and sensual as this one, she could pave her way to hell in only an evening.
Best get started, then.
She strained toward him, lifting her mouth in invitation, but he didn’t allow her to move. He just stood against her, his chest pressing her breasts higher as those big hands rested on her waist. She read hesitation in the movement, a hesitation she didn’t understand.
Millie knew he could see her a little. She didn’t have to fake the come-hither look this time, and finally, those hands began to move.
This man never seemed to do what she expected him to. Even now, his hands weren’t exploratory, but purposeful. They spanned the indent of her waist. Then her ribs, increasingly confined by her ever-quickening breath. His own inhale hitched when he reached her breasts, but he didn’t stop there. Didn’t cup or test them, didn’t reach beneath her low bodice to find the straining, aching nipples. His hands merely kept moving upward, across her bare chest and shoulders, the calluses on his palms abrading her tender flesh and unleashing chill bumps everywhere.
Andstillhe didn’t kiss her. Merely stood with a whisper between their lips, his hands inching toward her throat.
Millie released a whimper of need, unashamed of the frenzy beginning to build within her. Who could have known? That desire would be this delicious? That anticipation could lock you in its hands—its large, callused hands—and strip away your pride until you wanted to beg.
“It won’t hurt, I promise,” he whispered as his fingers gently reached the nape of her neck, and then her jaw, and paused there.
It already hurt. Sheached,ached in places generally best left ignored. Millie’s breath had now been reduced to little more than needy pants. “If you don’t kiss me, I’ll die,” she confessed.
He froze.
Vibrating with frustrated arousal she surged against him, lifting to her toes and grinding her lips against his.
The kiss was as hungry as it was sudden. While his eyes may have been cold, his mouth was hot and tasted of wine and male. She kissed him with abandon, enjoying the way his entire body jolted and went instantly rigid.
From the rough fingers at her throat to the hard sex in his trousers.
At the press of his arousal against her, Millie’s sensitive breasts likewise swelled beneath her corset, becoming full and heavy. Her clothes felt confining, her skin itched to be bared to him. Demanded it.
At last, his tongue invaded her mouth and she moaned her approval. His thumbs, at first resting against her clavicles, caressed the dip of her throat, the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, all while tasting her with the insatiable gluttony of a hedonist.
Millie had a sense that he was as lost to her as she to him. More so even, and the sensual, feminine power that surged within her fed her desire. She wanted him nigh gone for her. Drunk on her. Atop her, beneath her, and within her.
Perhaps they weremeantto meet tonight. Maybe he was the man she’d been waiting for, the mythical hero that would sweep her off her feet and capture her heart.
His fingers tightened again against her throat, just a little, and she gasped. Then moaned as a thrill of fear titillated down her nerves and settled as a pool of moisture between her thighs.
“Again,” she demanded, her arms winding around his neck, her body rubbing against his like a cat demanding to be stroked.
His curse was lost in the cavern of her mouth, and she knew in that moment that they both needed to see whatever this was between them to fruition.
A commotion warned them before the door from the hall burst open. Two female bodies spilled into the entryway floor in a heap of skirts and spitting, swearing, scratching violence. One of them they’d seen kissing another in the hall.
The aggressor was a stranger.
Millie and Mr. Drummle leaped apart, suddenly surrounded by a riotous group of men crowding behind them, shouting pleased and lusty approval and encouragement to the fighting women. Millie watched them for a moment. Stunned that ladies could be so vicious to one another.
But, she supposed, jealousy was a powerful emotion.
