Torrington paused and looked up at her. “Go ahead and give it a tug, Rosalind. Just so you can assure yourself it isn’t a wig.”
“I’ve apologized—” The word ended on a whimper as he sucked her back into his mouth, his tongue making the most divine circles. She pulled at his hair, urging his mouth to give her the release she so desperately needed. The sensation only hinted at those nights when she’d been alone in her bed.
Torrington flung one of her legs over his shoulder and Rosalind dug her heel into the muscles of his back. What an idiot she’d been to assume he’d worn an ounce of padding.
“I want to see you naked,” she whimpered. “No clothing.”
A satisfied grunt came from him. His tongue swirled and sucked, driving Rosalind into a near frenzy. His palm settled on her stomach, stretching possessively to hold her in place.
Another moan left her.
Torrington is my spark.
She cried out, startling poor Bijou, as her pleasure peaked sharply, bursting before her eyes like dozens of tiny stars all flaring at once. It was far more marvelous than she’d ever imagined. “Bram.”
Her hips writhed on the table, thrusting herself more firmly into his mouth as his tongue coaxed every bit of bliss from her trembling, bucking form. Just as it retreated, he forced another wave upon her, pulling so much pleasure from her throbbing body, Rosalind was sure her heart had stopped. She knew nothing but him in that moment, wanted nothing else but Torrington, as dangerous and unwelcome as that thought would become. Once the last of the waves receded, leaving her spent and panting, Rosalind glanced down her body, unsurprised to see herself stretched across the kitchen worktable as if she were being prepared for a feast.
“Spectacular.” He nipped the inside of her thigh.
“Yes, it certainly was.” She sat up on her elbows and looked down at him. He’d let go of her legs and propped his chin up on top of her stomach, watching her.
“Ruin me further,” Rosalind choked out. She might never allow herself to be so close to him again once her body had calmed and her mind became less muddled. “This isn’t my mother’s dining room.”
“No. It’s my kitchen.” Curls danced against his cheeks. Torrington looked so solemn. Conflicted.
“Bram.” Rosalind sat up as he reluctantly stood. Her hands slid across his stomach, but his hand circled her wrist before she could go further.
He shook his head, looking far more pensive than Rosalind expected. She reached for him again, but he took a step back.
“There are things we should discuss, Rosalind,” Torrington said quietly. “Important things. I won’t take your virtue in my kitchen.”
How bloody disappointing.
“But why? I won’t cry ruination,” she pleaded. “My opinion of marriage hasn’t changed, I promise.” Torrington didn’t want to wed. He’d told her so before he kissed her at Granby’s house party. “I wouldn’t expect you to do the honorable thing, if that concerns you.”
The line of his jaw sharpened. “How progressive of you.”
She bit her lip. Shouldn’t Torrington be pleased Rosalind wouldn’t expect him to wed her? That she wouldn’t tell anyone she’d been compromised? “I thought—”
“What did you think, Rosalind?” he shot back in a rough, almost angry tone.
“That you don’t want to marry. That you would be happy I expect only friendship.” She couldn’t bear to think of Torrington as anything other than a friend. “You’ve been so kind to share the recipes with me and I appreciate—” Rosalind’s hand hovered in the air between them before she drew it back once more. “I wanted—”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. A snarl came from Torrington as he looked down at her, his handsome features clouded with anger, mouth drawing into a thin line. One of the spoons fell from the table with a clatter, spraying whipped cream all over the floor.
“Is that what you think this is, Rosalind? An exchange offavors?” His voice was low and full of menace. “I’m surprised you would invite me to fuck you without first securing the recipe forbaiser du ciel.”
The crudity of his language, the assumption he’d drawn, had Rosalind falling back to grab at the worktable. “Bram.”
“Stop talking. Now.” He turned from her, placing both his hands on the edge of the stove. The set of his shoulders became rigid. Unmovable. “You should go, Rosalind,” he said without turning to look at her. “This instant. It was foolish for you to come here alone. If you’re seen, you will be as good as ruined. Forced to wed an elderly rogue who would doubtless breed you like a prize mare.” He flung her own words back at her. “You need to work on the cake. Much too dry. The candied orange rind is unnecessary.”
Her heart twisted painfully. “You can’t possibly think—Bram, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did, Rosalind. Why else would you be here?” He reached into his shirt pocket and without looking at her, extended his arm, the paper clasped in his fingers. “Oh, yes. You came for this. It’s a lemon torte. No need to have me taste it. Or offer yourself up again. It isn’t necessary.”
“That isn’t—” She stopped. He wasn’t going to listen to her or even look at her.
Fine.Though it really wasn’t.
