Page 88 of Where the Heart Leads
She turned and did, awareness slithering down her spine. Odd. Exciting. She was in charge—he would let her retain control—as long as her direction suited him.
Which left her with the challenge of “suiting him,” a challenge she was, at this point, apparently meeting.
Reaching the parlor, she opened the door and walked in. She glanced around, confirming it was as she’d recalled, a square room overlooking the deserted side garden, comfortably furnished with two well-padded sofas angled before the hearth, an armchair, and numerous side tables. A bureau stood against one wall, and a harp occupied one shadowed corner.
No lamp or candle had been left burning; the room hadn’t been prepared for guests. But moonlight, soft and pervasive, streamed in, a gentle illumination that, at least to her, seemed more conducive to their purpose.
Halting between the sofas, she turned; he’d paused just inside the door. She spread her arms. “Is this suitable?”
He’d been scanning the room. Now he looked at her. In the silence, she heard the lock on the door click. Leaving the door, he slowly walked toward her. “That depends on what you have in mind.”
More.But exactly what, and how…she met his eyes as he halted before her. “I’m aware that ladies and gentlemen of our station frequently indulge in encounters at events such as this, in rooms such as this.” That was one of the reasons she was keen to try it, to experience whatever illicit thrill was associated with such an encounter. To learn what more it might teach her of desire.
His gaze had lowered to her lips. She wondered if he was imagining kissing her.
Boldly stepping closer, she raised her hands, pressed them to his chest, then slid them slowly up, over his shoulders, moving closer yet so her breasts brushed his chest as she linked her hands at his nape. “I thought…”
His gaze was fixed on her lips. His hands rose to grasp her waist, fingers flexing as he gripped, and held her.
Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, she watched his eyes track the movement. Felt deliciously sinful—deliciously sirenlike and in control as she continued, “That perhaps we might play it by ear, so to speak, and see where desire leads us.”
His eyes rose, at last, to meet hers. To search them briefly, then his lips curved. “What,” he murmured, his breath a warm wash over her lips as he bent his head, “an excellent idea.”
She stretched up as he bent; their lips met—she couldn’t have said who kissed whom. From the first touch, the engagement was intent, fiery, and entirely mutual, driven by the desire that, somewhat to her surprise, seemed to flare all but instantly, from spark to flame to raging inferno.
Stronger than before, more certain, more powerful, it spread beneath her skin, and left her sensually gasping.
Desire wasn’t pleasure but the need for it, not delight but the hunger that craved it.
Within minutes their kiss had become a wanton duel of deliberate incitement—a contest to see who could more deeply, more completely, evoke the other’s passions. While he was unquestionably more experienced, she had enthusiasm, eagerness, and the blind faith in her own invincibility that was the hallmark of the innocent.
Mouths melded, lips locked, tongues tangling and claiming, he plundered while she taunted, and the flames between them roared.
Neither won. She wasn’t even sure such a concept applied, not in this sort of contest.
Her body was heated, breasts swollen and aching within the restrictive confines of her bodice, long before he stepped back, taking her with him; without breaking the kiss, he sank back and down, onto one of the sofas, lifting her, then setting her on her knees, one on either side of his thighs, so she could lean into him and continue their heated kiss.
While his hands rose and pandered to her needs, swiftly unbuttoning her bodice so it gaped, then with a flick of his long fingers dispensing with her chemise so his hand could make contact with her flushed skin and ease her.
Soothe her, and excite her.
The duality in his touch was plain to her, even through the distracting fire of the kiss. When his fingers found her nipple and traced, then tweaked, she gasped as pleasure radiated through her, but escalating hunger swam in its wake.
For every touch he gave her, she wanted many more. Every brief burst of pleasure, of delight, only deepened her craving.
She reached for the buttons closing his shirt.
He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. He drew back from the kiss, only a bare inch, just enough to inform her, his voice a dark rumble, “No—we have to return to the drawing room. You wanted this type of encounter—you have to play by the rules.”
In control, yet not. She licked her swollen lips. “What are these rules?”
“We remain more or less fully clothed.”
She blinked. “Can we?”
“Easily.”
He proceeded to show her how. How, with her as she was on her knees before him, he could arrange her skirt and petticoats, spreading the back free over his legs, tugging the fronts from beneath her knees, leaving the silk skirt relatively uncrushed, the froth of her petticoats no longer between them—leaving the sensitive inner faces of her thighs riding against the fine wool of his trousers and the steely muscles beneath.
