“Annie—”
And then there were no more words—at least, none that Winnie could make out—only whispered endearments and soft sounds that were not words at all.
She felt dazed—drunk. She felt she ought to have been frightened, but the fear didn’t come. Her mind was full of Spencer. His silent breath in her ear, their bodies pressed together, her legs spilling apart as his thumb grazed the outer curve of her breast.
She wanted to turn into his hand. She wanted his body above hers, all that solid warmth touching her, pressing into her. Her skin felt wildly sensitive, every tiny stroke of his thumb magnified, rippling down into the soft ache between her thighs.
Spencer tilted his head down. His mouth—she thought his lips almost brushed her ear.
Was he going to try to say something? To whisper in her ear?
He couldn’t do that. They might be overheard.
She angled her head up to stop him from speaking. Her mouth brushed his.
She could feel his breath, soundless and unsteady, on her lips. She could feel his fingers, his thighs, his heart beating frantically against her.
It was the gravitational pull of him again, drawing her mouth to his, her heart to his chest.
She stopped resisting and kissed him. She was silent, soft and unhurried, as her mouth moved on his, as his lips parted. She lifted her fingers to his face and stroked his cheekbone, the hard line of his jaw.
He kissed her back.
He was quiet too—quiet as he teased her with lips and tongue and teeth. Quiet as he slowly drove her mad.
In the violet-edged darkness, he sipped at her mouth. She felt a soft, hot suction—felt it at her lips and tongue and an answering pull between her legs. Her thighs loosened farther, parting over his, and he shuddered noiselessly against her.
It should not have been erotic—the shadowed silence, the threat of discovery—and yet it was. Dizzyingly so.
His fingers found the tugged-down edge of her chemise. His thumb played there—slipping between fabric and skin, dipping under the lacy edge and then back up, tiny delicate strokes that felt like little licks of flame. Desire tightened her lower belly.
He broke away from her mouth to press hot, quick kisses along her jawline. He paused beneath her ear and licked her there.
She trembled against him. He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit down, just hard enough for her to feel it.
The sounds from Reginald and Annie were louder now, more impassioned.
Winnie shifted, angling her breast into Spencer’s hand, baring her neck for his mouth. She felt as much as heard the hiss that escaped from him as her buttocks nestled more firmly into his groin. He was—ah—as aroused as she was, his erection pressed unmistakably into her hip.
His thumb ran along the edge of her chemise. She knew she could not make a sound, so she arched up into him instead, trying to nudge his fingers down inside her bodice where her nipples felt tight and aching.
His fingers stayed light, not quite inside her chemise, but his mouth came down hard instead, sucking at the place where her neck met her shoulder. It felt—oh, merciful heavens, it felt good, sweet and unrelenting.
She ran her palm up the inside of his thigh. His breath came out in a silent rush, and his thumb dipped down, sweeping along the outside curve of her breast.
Her head fell back. The soundlessness of their touching—the gasps and moans of the couple they were hiding from—somehow it all aroused her further. They felt alone together—alone in a dark, warm world of fragmented pleasure and spinning, spiraling need.
She slid her palm higher. She wanted to drive him wild—she wanted to feel him shed all that careful control—
He bit her. She gasped, a single tiny inhalation. He shuddered again, his hips lifting, pressing his erection harder against her.
Reginald and Annie were louder now, lost in their own coupling, and so she took a risk. She tipped her head, put her mouth to Spencer’s ear, and breathed, “More.”
He didn’t whisper anything back. He stilled for a moment, and then his hand came down to grip her thigh, clamping hard, holding her motionless against him. She writhed a little—her heart was racing—she felt hot and dizzied and desperate.
His hand started to move, making circles on her thigh. His mouth moved too, kissing her neck, licking and sucking at her skin. His palm moved to the inside of her knee, rising higher with each circle of his hand.
She needed—oh God, she needed him to touch her. She was hot and aching, her breath coming in needy pants, and she tried—shetriedto regulate her breathing, but his hand moved higher and higher, and she couldn’t stop her gasps, not when his thumb found the crease of her pelvis, not when his hips jerked erratically against her.
