“Thisiscourting.” He removed his left hand from her bodice and lowered it to her lap, settling over hers where she clasped her skirts. Their fingers tangled while his right hand continued to play with her nipple. “If I had my way, I’d have you bent over this table right now, buttercup, with your skirt up around your waist and my cock so deep inside you that—”
A discreet knock sounded at the door to the dining room just then. How had the time passed with such swiftness? The butler’s calm, utterly proper voice cut through the moment. “Your Grace? Forgive the interruption, but the next course will arrive in two minutes.”
“Damn it.” Sebastian exhaled against her throat.
Yes, damn it, she echoed inwardly. Some wicked part of her she hadn’t known existed still longed to hear the rest of what he’d been about to say. Such wicked, wanton things. So low and base, she ought to take umbrage as any properly bred lady would. But what he had said would taunt her all night long. His cock inside her. The mere notion was enough to make her come out of her skin.
His hand retreated from her bodice. “I should have asked for a whole bloody hour.”
His tone was grim. As grim as she felt. The loss of his touch was an ache pounding through her wherever his skin had last met hers. Acting on instinct alone, she released her skirts at last, reaching behind her to still him when he would have disengaged. She caught his cheek to her palm, the bristles of his whiskers a welcome abrasion upon her palm. She had chosen not to wear gloves on occasion of the intimacy of the setting and she was heartily glad for it now.
Daisy turned finally, so that their mouths nearly brushed.
Her eyes met his, challenging the sparks she saw. The heat. The want. “Yes,” she agreed, “you should have.”
And then she pressed her lips to his.
he had kissed him.
And it had been inexperienced. Not at all artful. No hint of seduction. No teasing. Daisy’s mouth had simply turned to his, seeking. But if anything, her approach had only made the beast raging inside him hunger for more. And so, he’d met her halfway, claiming, obliging her.
He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth, moaning his appreciation for her boldness, his hand fisting her skirts of its own volition and raising them higher. Up, past her knees, almost to her thighs. He found his way back into the inviting warmth of her bodice where the fullness of her breast made him long for more.
He’d caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit. He’d almost been to the sweet slit in her drawers, his tongue taking her mouth the way he longed to claim her cunny, his fingers skimming past stockings and satin ribbons, over soft thighs she parted just for him. And then another knock had come at the door. Giles again. Ever discreet. Ever circumspect.
It was a final warning. To postpone the servants yet again would set tongues belowstairs wagging more than they already had. He and Daisy were newly wed and allowed some latitude. But calling for a twenty-minute break followed by another, followed by only-the-Lord-knew-what was testing the bounds of propriety more than he ought to do, and even Sebastian knew that. There was also the concern, nipping at him, that Carlisle’s eyes and ears could be among his domestics.
With a final, thorough kiss and a tweak of the sweet, tight bud of her nipple, he had withdrawn. The willpower required to disengage himself from her had been proportionate to the size of his cock, both of which had rendered his sudden retreat back to his seat a decidedly painful endeavor.
They’d blithely moved on to the next course, feigning an unaffected air that was as honest as paste gems on an actress’s throat.Filet de bouef sauce Madère aux haricots verts, as it happened. It was the first time in Sebastian’s life that he’d had a perfectly cooked steak on his plate and hadn’t wanted to eat a goddamn bite.
Because all he wanted—the only bloody nourishment that would satisfy him—was the gorgeous, unpredictable, untrustworthy woman he’d been forced to marry. How the hell had Carlisle ever imagined he could marry a goddess like Daisy Vanreid off to a man, whether he be a loyal, oath-swearing member of the League or no, without her tempting him to ruination?
Sebastian had a glass of whisky in hand now as he stared at the door adjoining his chamber to hers, and he couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to fuck Daisy to oblivion. She was that alluring, that sensual, that innately beautiful. She was also bold and daring, witty and brave, smart and warm and soft, slow to rile, easy to laugh.
Ordinarily, he didn’t imbibe often, and especially not during the course of a mission, but something about the situation in which he currently found himself made him want to drink an entire barrel of liquor if only it would quiet the demons eating away at him.
The demons that told him to throw open the door between them, go to the woman he’d married, and take her. To tear away every scrap of fabric keeping her body from him until she was completely nude. To throw her on the bed, spread her luscious thighs, and take her for his own.
He groaned. Beneath his dressing gown, his cock was harder than ever, raging and pulsing at the thought of burying himself in soft, wet, womanly flesh. But not just any woman’s. Daisy’s. Christ yes, there was something about that golden-haired American minx that fashioned him Odysseus and her one of the Sirens. A beautiful, undeniable lure leading him into the treacherous rocks of the shore.
His ship was bound to crash if he followed her. Yet somehow, he couldn’t seem to stay away. Didn’t want to. Her skin had been softer than silk where he’d tasted her, kissed her, felt the rapid drum of her heartbeat. Whatever it was that sizzled between them, it was undeniable, and she felt it every bit as much as he did.
Without even realizing he’d moved, he found himself across his chamber, hand on the doorknob separating him from her. Jesus. This was getting out of control. He tossed back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn that only fine whisky could provide, and then set it aside. There was nary a sound on the other side of the door as he took a few breaths and willed his raging arousal to subside.
Going to her chamber was foolish, and he recognized it. But he couldn’t seem to keep his distance from her.One breath, two breaths.His cock was harder than a marble bust.Three, four.Still not lessening. Christ, this propensity for counting was all her fault, and it needed to bloody well end.
He thought of the queen. Thought of his maternal grandmother’s funeral.Five, six.Attempted to recall some Shakespeare, but the only lines that came to mind had her name in them.
When daisies pied and violets blue.
Damn it all to hell. More words returned to him, mocking.The cuckoo, then, on every tree, mocks married men, for thus sings he…
Bloody, bloody hell. Leave it to Shakespeare to taunt him as well, with a well-placed barb. She wasn’t his. Not to keep, no matter how much he desired her. This was all foolishness. Ridiculous. Unutterably stupid. And yet, he couldn’t excise her from his mind.
The scent of her—bergamot, vanilla, ambergris—still filled his senses as if she stood before him. His fingers burned with remembrance of the feeling of those hard little buds of her nipples.
Distraction wasn’t working. Neither was tarrying. Or breathing. He needed to see her. Needed to touch her. He rapped sharply on the door. Waited for her to respond. Hoped she would tell him to go to hell.
