Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 19
Simon took a deep breath and was inundated with her scent.
“Of course you were going to follow me.”
“Why would you think that?”
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Because you wanted to.”
She was close enough to touch, and his fingers flexed at his side, itching to reach for her, to pull her to him and prove her right. “You’re wrong. I followed you to keep you from getting into more trouble.” She was looking up at him with her bright eyes and her full lips, curved in a small smile that promised endless secrets. “I followed you because your impulsiveness is a danger to yourself and others.”
“You are sure?”
The entire conversation was getting away from him. “Of course I am,” he said, casting about for proof. “I haven’t time for your little games, Miss Fiori. I’m to meet with Lady Penelope’s father today.”
Her gaze flickered away for the briefest of instants before returning to his. “You’d best be off, then. You would not want to miss such an important appointment.”
He read the dare in her eyes.
Go.
He wanted to.
He was going to.
One strand of long black hair had come loose from her cap, and he reached for it instinctively. He should have pushed it back from her face—should not have touched it to begin with—but once he had it in his grasp, he could not stop himself from wrapping it once, twice around his fist, watching it cut a swath across the soft leather of his riding glove, wishing he could feel the silken strand against his skin.
Her breath quickened, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. The men’s clothing should have renewed his fury, but instead it sent a powerful rush of desire through him. A mere handful of buttons kept her from him—buttons that could easily be dispatched, leaving her in nothing but the linen of her shirt, which could be freed from breeches, providing access to soft female skin beyond.
His gaze returned to hers, and that’s when he saw it. Gone were the bold challenge and the smug satisfaction, replaced with something raw and powerful, immediately identifiable.
Desire.
Suddenly, he saw how he could regain control of the moment. Of himself.
“I think you wanted me to follow you.”
“I—” Her voice caught, and she stopped. He felt the heady triumph of a hunter who had spied his first prey. “I did not care.”
“Liar.” The word was whispered, low and dark in the heavy morning air. He tugged on the lock of hair, pulling her toward him, until mere inches separated them.
Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath, stealing his attention.
And when he saw those wide lush lips barely parted, begging for him, he did not resist. He did not even try.
She tasted like spring.
The thought exploded through him as he settled his lips on hers, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her toward him, affording him better access to her. He could have sworn she gasped his name . . . the sound soft and breathy and intoxicating as hell. He pulled her more tightly against him, pressing her to him. She came willingly, moving against him as though she knew what he wanted before he did.
And perhaps she did.
He ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip, and when she gasped at the sensation, he did not wait, taking her mouth again, stroking deep, thinking of nothing but her. And then she was kissing him back, matching his movements, and he was lost in the feel of her—her hands moving with torturous slowness along his arms until they finally, finally reached his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, the softness of her lips, and the maddening, magnificent little sounds she made at the back of her throat as he claimed her.
And it was a claiming—primitive and wicked.
She pressed closer to him, the swell of her br**sts pressing high on his chest, and pleasure flared. He deepened the kiss, running his hands down her back to pull her against him where he wanted her most. The breeches afforded her a freedom of movement that no skirts ever could have, and he palmed one long lovely thigh, hitching her leg up until she cradled the throbbing length of him at her warm core.
He broke the kiss on a soft groan as she rocked against him in a rhythm that set him aflame. “You are a sorceress.” In that moment, he was an innocent lad chasing after his first bit of skirt, desire and excitement and something far more base colliding deep within in a tumult of sensation.
He wanted her laid bare right here, on the dirt path at the center of Hyde Park, and he did not care who saw them.
He took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth, worrying the flesh there until she called out high and clear, “Simon!”
The sound of his given name punctuating the quiet dawn brought him back to reality. He pulled back, dropping her leg as though it burned. He stepped away, breathing heavily, watching as confusion chased desire from her countenance.
She stumbled at the instant loss of him, unable to bear her own weight with so little warning. He reached out to catch her, to steady her.
The moment she regained her footing, she pulled her arm from his and took a long step backward. Her gaze shuttered, the emotion there cooling, and he wanted to kiss her again, to bring the desire back.
She turned away from him before he could act on the desire, heading for her mount, still at the center of the pathway. He watched, unmoving, as she lifted herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She looked down at him from above with all the grace of a queen.
He should apologize.
He had mauled her in the middle of Hyde Park. If someone had come upon them—
She stopped the thought with her words. “It seems you are not so immune to passion as you think, Your Grace.”
“Of course you were going to follow me.”
“Why would you think that?”
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Because you wanted to.”
She was close enough to touch, and his fingers flexed at his side, itching to reach for her, to pull her to him and prove her right. “You’re wrong. I followed you to keep you from getting into more trouble.” She was looking up at him with her bright eyes and her full lips, curved in a small smile that promised endless secrets. “I followed you because your impulsiveness is a danger to yourself and others.”
“You are sure?”
The entire conversation was getting away from him. “Of course I am,” he said, casting about for proof. “I haven’t time for your little games, Miss Fiori. I’m to meet with Lady Penelope’s father today.”
Her gaze flickered away for the briefest of instants before returning to his. “You’d best be off, then. You would not want to miss such an important appointment.”
He read the dare in her eyes.
Go.
He wanted to.
He was going to.
One strand of long black hair had come loose from her cap, and he reached for it instinctively. He should have pushed it back from her face—should not have touched it to begin with—but once he had it in his grasp, he could not stop himself from wrapping it once, twice around his fist, watching it cut a swath across the soft leather of his riding glove, wishing he could feel the silken strand against his skin.
Her breath quickened, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. The men’s clothing should have renewed his fury, but instead it sent a powerful rush of desire through him. A mere handful of buttons kept her from him—buttons that could easily be dispatched, leaving her in nothing but the linen of her shirt, which could be freed from breeches, providing access to soft female skin beyond.
His gaze returned to hers, and that’s when he saw it. Gone were the bold challenge and the smug satisfaction, replaced with something raw and powerful, immediately identifiable.
Desire.
Suddenly, he saw how he could regain control of the moment. Of himself.
“I think you wanted me to follow you.”
“I—” Her voice caught, and she stopped. He felt the heady triumph of a hunter who had spied his first prey. “I did not care.”
“Liar.” The word was whispered, low and dark in the heavy morning air. He tugged on the lock of hair, pulling her toward him, until mere inches separated them.
Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath, stealing his attention.
And when he saw those wide lush lips barely parted, begging for him, he did not resist. He did not even try.
She tasted like spring.
The thought exploded through him as he settled his lips on hers, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her toward him, affording him better access to her. He could have sworn she gasped his name . . . the sound soft and breathy and intoxicating as hell. He pulled her more tightly against him, pressing her to him. She came willingly, moving against him as though she knew what he wanted before he did.
And perhaps she did.
He ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip, and when she gasped at the sensation, he did not wait, taking her mouth again, stroking deep, thinking of nothing but her. And then she was kissing him back, matching his movements, and he was lost in the feel of her—her hands moving with torturous slowness along his arms until they finally, finally reached his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, the softness of her lips, and the maddening, magnificent little sounds she made at the back of her throat as he claimed her.
And it was a claiming—primitive and wicked.
She pressed closer to him, the swell of her br**sts pressing high on his chest, and pleasure flared. He deepened the kiss, running his hands down her back to pull her against him where he wanted her most. The breeches afforded her a freedom of movement that no skirts ever could have, and he palmed one long lovely thigh, hitching her leg up until she cradled the throbbing length of him at her warm core.
He broke the kiss on a soft groan as she rocked against him in a rhythm that set him aflame. “You are a sorceress.” In that moment, he was an innocent lad chasing after his first bit of skirt, desire and excitement and something far more base colliding deep within in a tumult of sensation.
He wanted her laid bare right here, on the dirt path at the center of Hyde Park, and he did not care who saw them.
He took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth, worrying the flesh there until she called out high and clear, “Simon!”
The sound of his given name punctuating the quiet dawn brought him back to reality. He pulled back, dropping her leg as though it burned. He stepped away, breathing heavily, watching as confusion chased desire from her countenance.
She stumbled at the instant loss of him, unable to bear her own weight with so little warning. He reached out to catch her, to steady her.
The moment she regained her footing, she pulled her arm from his and took a long step backward. Her gaze shuttered, the emotion there cooling, and he wanted to kiss her again, to bring the desire back.
She turned away from him before he could act on the desire, heading for her mount, still at the center of the pathway. He watched, unmoving, as she lifted herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She looked down at him from above with all the grace of a queen.
He should apologize.
He had mauled her in the middle of Hyde Park. If someone had come upon them—
She stopped the thought with her words. “It seems you are not so immune to passion as you think, Your Grace.”
