His feet began a slow prowl forward, steadily erasing the distance between them, inch by deliberate inch. She should feel panicked, or, at least, unsettled, by his purposeful approach. But those feelings refused to take hold. The anxiety and anticipation of seconds ago flared into a single overwhelming sensation: desire, white hot, ravenous.
He drew within a foot of her and stopped. The only sound in the room the jagged in and out of her breath.
So this was what it was to be a wanton? Aching from the nearness of his withheld touch, excruciatingly delicious and exquisitely tortured all at once.
“Why are you here?” she muttered.
“How should I answer that question?” he returned, his voice a low, masculine register that quaked her to the core of her sex. His head lowered, lips hovering just above hers for one, two, three rapid heartbeats, his breath a whisper across her lips. “Like this?”
He thrust forward, closing the remaining gap between their bodies, the full length of him pushing her up and against the solid wall, and their bodies went still, their gazes locked. If there was a time for turning back, this would be it.
She wasn’t certain she could survive another night after an almost kiss. And she had no intention of finding out.
Her heels lifted, her body grazing his full length. A groan escaped him, and his mouth lowered, his lips brushing hers, once, twice, her nipples hardening in want, in expectation, before another groan sounded and the kiss deepened in a tidal wave of pent-up desire too long held at bay.
The tip of his tongue swirled around hers, toying with her, teasing her. An animal moan sounded, and she realized it had come from her. His hands slid down and around to the small of her back, coursing lower until he had her bottom in hand. His knees bent, and, of a sudden, their bodies fit together like a perfectly joined puzzle.
Well, almost. She gave a quick thrust of her hips, and her foot snaked around his ankle. Oh, they could be joined so much more perfectly . . .
As if intuiting her thoughts, his long, capable fingers wrapped around her knee, and he pressed himself against her until she felt the rigid length of his shaft through gossamer layers of silk. Again her hips pushed forward, this time a more deliberate, slow grind against him. She went mindless with pleasure, pure, raw, clamoring for, nay, demanding release.
This was no uncertain first kiss. This was madness.
He tore his lips from hers, only to trace his slippery tongue down the exposed column of her neck. Her throat emitted a ragged moan as his mouth trailed lower until he reached her breasts and his hands reached up to cup them from below. One expert tug of silk, and suddenly her nipples were free. She didn’t wear bindings.
A hard glint of hunger shone in his eyes, coaxing her arousal higher. His mouth covered one nipple, his tongue flicking the taut bud, and his fingers toyed with the other until she bucked beneath his touch. A cry erupted from her throat, a primal plea for more, for everything.
She clutched the lapels of his shirt, intent on rending the cloth, if need be, her sole concern to feel his undressed skin upon hers. She hardly knew herself, a feral wild thing concerned only with pleasure.
Then, she noticed it. He’d gone still. A moan of frustration unwound inside her.
“Shh. Do you hear?”
She exhaled a rough, frustrated breath and quieted her unruly self, listening, waiting. Every muscle in her body tensed, and her eyes flew open. She heard them. Footsteps echoing down the hallway with only one realistic destination: this room.
No mistake, she and Lord St. Alban had ten seconds before discovery.
“Olivia?” he asked. “What do you need me to do?”
“You can begin by unhanding me,” she said in the precise notes of a prim miss.
His hands dropped to his sides, and she could hate herself.
“The servants know to look for me here when they can’t find me.”
Free of him, too free of him, she slid along the wall and far away from him, too far away from him. Her fingers rushed to right her bodice, smooth her hair, straighten her crushed silk skirts. All the while, his serious gaze never wavered from her, but gone was the sensuous heat from moments ago. He watched her dispassionately as if from a great distance.
A full cry of unrequited lust sought release. She didn’t want his dispassion. Quite the opposite.
“You look the perfect lady,” he said once she’d finished. “Almost.”
She cut him a staying glare before stepping to the doorway, blocking any possible view into the studio. Even the most loyal servant couldn’t be trusted with a tidbit of gossip as choice as this one. “May I help you, Mrs. Landry?” Olivia called out. The click of the servant’s heels came to an abrupt stop.
After a quick, hushed exchange, Olivia turned back toward Lord St. Alban, Mrs. Landry’s footsteps receding down the hallway. She cleared her throat. “Your daughter will be awaiting you in the Duke’s main foyer.”
He looked as if he would say something, but, then, he didn’t. What did she expect? That they would pick up where they’d left off?
Again, she longed to cry out. She wasn’t finished with him yet.
