Page 24 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
It seemed to be all the invitation he needed. Before she could react, he’d wrapped an arm around her, drawn her up flush against his body, and begun a slow, seductive plundering of her mouth. He was not forceful, but he was insistent, his tongue enticing her lips to part. He tasted wicked, of something darker than the wine she’d drunk earlier. Her body hummed, erupting with pleasure, like little bubbles in champagne, cascading through her, popping along her nerve endings. She clung to Westcliffe, because to do otherwise would see her on the floor in a pool of muslin. He took her strength while at the same time granting her energy. It was the most marvelous thing she’d ever experienced.
He released a grating growl, then his hand was cradling her cheek, his thumb beneath her chin, tilting her head back slightly, altering the angle of the kiss so that his tongue delved more deeply. Hearing a restrained whimper, she realized that it came from her. She wanted to crawl up his body, wrap her legs around him. She felt pressure building between her thighs and wanted to push herself against him. What was wrong with her? Where were all these wanton thoughts and feelings coming from?
He glided his hands over her as though intent on memorizing every dip and curve, and with each stroke her body swelled with need. Heat built, desire flourished. She’d not expected this, this rampant yearning. It was far more intense than anything she’d experienced, and the strangest thought darted through her mind: that she wished she’d had this on her wedding night. For there was no denying the powerful need to take this journey to its rightful destination.
He cupped both hands around her bottom, pressed her firmly against him, her stomach molding around the hard ridge of his desire. She thought she should have been frightened. Instead, she wanted to explore him with the same furor. Oh, he was skilled at stirring passion, and all she’d feared retreated in the wake of overpowering sensations. He was like the storm, powerful and determined, that altered everything in its path, drenching thirsts and causing leaves to dance.
There was no hope for it. Whatever he wished of her—with the penetrating stroke of his tongue, the titillating touch of his fingers—he caused her to wish for herself. She wanted to follow these sensations to their fruition. She wanted to follow him.
With an abruptness she’d not expected, he broke off the kiss. Breathing harshly, his face flushed, his brow coated with dew, his eyes burning with a terrifying passion, he ground out through clenched teeth, “What you had before was the kiss of a boy. That is the kiss of a man.”
While she, gasping for breath, sank down onto the edge of the bed, he strode to the door. “Where are you going?” she forced out, her voice as weak as her body.
He stopped and glanced back at her over his shoulder, all fires banked, nothing but icy disdain now reflected in his features. “This changes nothing between us.”
Then he disappeared, and she wondered how he could be so unaffected—when, for her, it had changed everything.
Christ! Standing in the tub in the bathing chamber, he dunked what water remained in the washbasin over his head. He told himself that it was because he’d left Anne without his needs satisfied. He’d been a tinderbox of desire ready to ignite with the smallest flame. But if he were honest, it was more than that. Claire had tasted sultry, the wine on her tongue more intoxicating than any he’d sipped from a glass. Her reaction had been instantaneous, passionate, and heated. She’d not been coy. She’d not held back.
It unsettled him to think she might have given him the first honest kiss he’d ever received.
It wasn’t possible. He had more than a dozen years of knowing various women’s mouths, yet he couldn’t recall a single one that had been more alluring, that had made him want to draw out her pleasure as well as his. He’d never wanted simply to kiss a woman over and over. He’d wanted to sit down, draw her onto his lap, and kiss her. He’d wanted to lay her down and continue playing his mouth over hers.
A kiss was a prelude, but with her it had been as satisfying as anything that might have followed.
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Grabbing a towel, he scrubbed it over his hair as he walked into his bedchamber, slamming the bathing-room door behind him. He stripped out of his wet clothes, poured himself a drink, downed it, and crawled into his bed. Stuffing his hands behind his head, he stared at the canopy.
Slowly, inch by inch, his gaze followed the unwanted path until he was once again scrutinizing the etching. Leo had perfectly captured the shape of Claire’s tantalizing mouth. Even now in dark gray, it still managed to ensnare him.
He could very possibly go bloody well mad before this Season saw its final ball.
Chapter 8
Westcliffe had left word with Willoughby that he was to be notified the moment the duchess’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of his residence. Therefore, he was nearly to the front door as Leo walked through it.
“My lo—”
Westcliffe abruptly halted his greeting by grabbing him by the scruff of the collar and hauling him to the parlor. The man was only a few inches shorter, but the way Westcliffe was feeling at that moment, he doubted even a man who towered over him could have dissuaded him from his purpose.
He was in a foul mood. He’d gone to bed aching with need. He’d intended merely to play his lips over Claire’s, give her a sampling of his kiss, but somewhere along the way his intentions had wandered off course. It had been too late to go to Anne or any other woman. So his frustration over what had happened with Claire was still harping at him, and he needed to unload it somewhere. Unfortunately for Leo, he was about to be the unlikely recipient. Westcliffe slung the young man into the room and closed the door behind them before advancing on him.
That Leo merely straightened his attire while standing his ground spoke well of him, but it did nothing to lessen Westcliffe’s temper.
“What the devil do you think you’re attempting to convey with that portrait?” Westcliffe demanded.
Leo merely smirked and sank into the nearest chair. “I told you not to look at it.”
“You knew damned well that I would.”
Leo shrugged as though he couldn’t be bothered to care what Westcliffe thought or felt.
“That scowl does not flatter me.”
“Then I suggest you not scowl.”
Before he planted his fist in the young man’s fair face, Westcliffe strode away, then swung back around. “Why that moment? Why did you choose to outline that particular moment?”
