Page 63 of The Lady's Last Mistake
His immediate answer was simple: Because he wanted her to be happy. But there was much more to it. Why did he care about her happiness? Why did the things she thought and felt seem to rule him as of late?
And why did his attention keep diverting to her mouth?
On impulse, he reached for her. His hand brushed tentatively against the deep rose silk. To touch her was the only thought firing into his brain. Once his fingertips made contact, Cassie’s lips, which he’d been so studiously watching, parted. Grant filled his palm with silk as he pressed his hand against her hip, the same way he had at the clinic. Her top teeth bit the soft mound of her bottom lip, and her whisky glass, loose in her grip, tipped. He caught the glass, supporting her fingers around it.
“Grant,” she whispered.
He gently prized the glass from her and placed it on the mantel, his full attention never leaving her eyes. Her breaths shortened, and her pulse visibly beat against the curve of her throat. He placed his fingertips against her warm skin there and felt the quickened throb.
“Cassie.” He heard his voice, but it was trancelike. Far away and muffled. He hardly recognized it.
She didn’t respond, but kept her face lifted to his. As her eyes dipped toward his mouth, he read the unmistakable invitation. Stronger and surer than the one in her eyes the other night in his study. He’d resisted then. He should now, too, but as the tip of his nose came against hers, and her warm breaths gusted against his mouth, the last scrap of Grant’s resistance foundered. His lips grazed hers.
He’d intended for a gentle, appraising kiss, to give her the chance to pull back or push him away. But at the first caress of her velvet lips, all gentlemanly intentions dissolved. He fused his mouth to hers, and the fingers gathering the silk at her hip dug in and hitched her closer. Grant reveled in the feel of her body pressed against his, and in her soft, decadent whimper when he impatiently nudged her lips apart. In a strike of victory, Cassie’s indecision evaporated. Her tongue met his, and the world around them fragmented and fell away. There was only Cassie and her mouth and her sumptuous figure, sealing itself to him. The smoked spice of whisky on her tongue curled through him as he consumed her kisses, one after another, each rising in fevered need. He filled his palms with as much of her body as he could, spending an ungodly amount of attention to the lush swells of her backside.
Breathless and mindless, he barely stopped himself from sweeping her feet from the floor and cradling her into his arms. This wasn’t his house. He couldn’t toss her over his shoulder and climb to his room where he’d lay her down on his bed, peel the silk from her body and sink into her. He groaned at the sinful image. Cassie, feeling the vibration of it, gasped into his mouth. Her palms, braced against his shoulders, slid down his chest. Then lower,against his stomach. Any more of this and he wouldn’t be able to stop.
With more fortitude than he’d ever shown in his life, Grant clamped his hands down over hers and broke away from her mouth. Her swollen, pink lips competed with the invading reality that this was Hugh’s study, and that he or Audrey or one of their nosy servants could come barging in at any moment. She breathed heavily, her eyes two smoldering coals as she came down from the same frenzy.
“Cassie,” he said again, his own breaths ragged.
He wasn’t given a chance to say anything more. Sprightly footfalls in the entrance hall beyond the closed study doors drove them to release each other. Grant raked a hand through his hair and scrubbed at his mouth as Cassie whirled toward the fireplace to straighten her gown and hair. He was smoothing the lapel of his jacket when Hugh entered, followed closely by his housekeeper, Mrs. Carrigan.
“Cassie, your room is ready. Thornton, Norris can drive you back to your home?—”
“I will walk,” Grant interrupted him, desperate for the cold air to douse the fire consuming his good sense.
“You’re sure?” Hugh asked.
“It’s less than a mile, I’ll be fine,” he said, far too abruptly to be anything other than suspicious. He turned his back on Hugh’s narrowing stare and met Cassie’s red-cheeked and red-lipped face. Hugh would certainly recognize the complexion of a recently plundered mouth.Christ. Grant bowed. “Good night, Lady Cassandra.”
“Lord Thornton,” she said, still rather breathless.
He left without a glance toward his friend, though he feltHugh’s eyes on him. As he collected his coat and hat, and then emerged into the brisk December night air, he could still taste Cassie on his tongue. Could still feel her warm body against his. Bloody hell. Grant walked faster, the notion that everything was about to go to shit snapping at his heels.
Chapter
Eighteen
Thick green carpet absorbed the steady sound of Cassie’s pacing. The blush of dawn painted the bare tree limbs in the park at Berkeley Square a pinkish orange, and on every turn at the window, she paused to observe the coming daylight.
She’d gone to bed several hours ago but had barely slept. After Grant left the study, Hugh had been gentlemanly enough not to mention what he and Mrs. Carrigan had so obviously interrupted. Cassie’s lips had felt distended, and her flush had been so thorough, her palm had been like ice when she’d pressed it to her hot cheek. Wholly out of sorts, she’d bid the viscount a distracted goodnight and followed the housekeeper to an upstairs room.
A maid waiting for her there had efficiently removed her gown and dressed her in a borrowed nightrail; one of Audrey’s, to be sure. When Cassie had finally been alone, she’d perched at the edge of the tester bed and put her trembling fingers to her lips.
She’d still been able to feel Grant’s mouth, his bruising kisses, and the ardent, nearly desperate kneading of his hands. Her skin prickled where he’d touched, and where he hadn’t, there was a hollow ache. A few times now, Cassie had wanted him to kiss her, and when he hadn’t, she’d imagined what it might have been like. However, none of her imaginings measured up to the reality. In the study, when he’d crushed her to him, he’d seared her with a fire inside him, one he’d barely been holding in check.
It hadn’t been anything close to what she’d felt with Renfry. With him, her mind had been spinning during his kisses, thoughts and doubts and questions all swarming. But under Grant’s mouth, only one word had filled her head:more.
At Hope House, some of the women had spoken plainly about the pleasures of coupling. There seemed to be a consensus among them that they were often made weak by it. Cassie hadn’t understood, not truly, considering her wholly unpleasant first—and only—experience. But now, after Grant’s kiss, when her sole desire had been for his hands to touch more of her, his mouth to stay on hers… How different might the act of lovemaking be with someone as skilled as Grant?
She stopped at the window overlooking the square and gripped the embrasure. Her pulse picked up speed and a fine sweat bloomed on her neck and back. Thank providence things ended the way they had. She couldn’t afford to be made weak-minded. With Renfry, she’d allowed passion to dictate her actions—though not her own passion. Her concern had been for Renfry’s pleasure.Hispassion. Pleasinghim. She’d been so consumed with giving Renfrywhat he desired and thus ensuring her place as his wife, that nothing else had mattered.
But with Grant’s devouring kisses and impatient hands practically incinerating her, pleasure was all that had mattered. Cassie released the embrasure and touched her lips again. If Grant’s kisses alone could affect her so thoroughly, she wondered what spending the night in his arms would do to her.
She whisked her hand from her mouth and curled it into a ball.Stop. What was she thinking? In a fortnight or two, Grant Thornton would have no more use for her. They were only spending time together because of the ruse, and because he’d coerced her to do so! And yet, she’d still become a willing lump of desire in his arms. Where was her bloody backbone?
Grant Thornton was a Lothario, and everyone knew it.Of courseshe had become a thoughtless puddle of need—he was well practiced in making women turn into them.
