The attraction between them was mutual. He sensed it in the way her body subconsciously relaxed against him, so that her curves filled the hard planes and angles of his. In the way she clutched him rather than pushing him away. Damn her. If she had been aloof, if she had attempted to escape, he would have let her go. But she had not, and he could not let her go now.
Because he wanted more, and so did she.
“You are correct in your assessment,” he bit out angrily, for she tempted him beyond reason and he resented her for the weakness she created, a weakness that had never previously existed. “I am very dangerous to you.” He stepped closer, until they were nose to nose. His forehead touched hers. “Dangerous to your virtue, Miss Governess.”
Her pupils were obsidian, large and beckoning, giving her away. Her glittering eyes, honey and sherry, gold and warm, were wide and clear and unblinking. He could lose himself in their depths, in the sweet scent of her. Jasmine and woman and… Holy God, his cock pressed the fall of his breeches like a madman determined to be released from forced incarceration.
“You would force yourself upon a helpless female dependent upon your largesse for her supper, Your Grace?” she asked softly.
Ah, here they were at the crux of the matter.
He inched nearer, allowing his lower lip to brush against hers from left to right. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Would it be force then, Miss Governess, if I kissed you now? Would you kiss me back, or would you slap me? I confess, I cannot help but wonder.”
Her eyes remained wide, the shallowness of her breathing and tightening of her grip on him the only indication that she was affected. He waited for her to respond. For her to deny she wanted him.
Their push and pull was inexorable. Undeniable. He had never wanted to strip a woman of her trappings more. The cap, the lace, the muslin. He would divest her of every tool she used to diminish her beauty until she was all he could see.
Silence fell heavy between them. For a few beats, neither of them said a word. His already limited patience snapped like a twig. He gave her waist a gentle, coaxing squeeze. “Answer me, damn you.”
She sighed on a humid exhalation that feathered over his mouth like a caress. He was so desperate for her, even the air she expelled from her lungs seemed precious, and he longed to somehow take it into his body, claim ownership of her in this small, mad sense. As if breathing her air could make her his. A sudden, stark jolt of possessiveness seized him. Damnation, but he wanted to claim her in a way he had never experienced.
“Answer me,” he repeated, needing to hear the admission from her lips. Needing to know the wild want he felt for her was reciprocated, that she could not deny it any more than he could. His mind began to form solutions. It was his nature, what had made him an excellent soldier. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Her hands slid to his shoulders and then twined about his neck. Her lips parted. Another sultry gust of tea-scented air hit him. He bit his lip, reining in his need with Herculean effort. Still, she said nothing.
Not yes.
Not no.
Not. A. Bloody. Word.
He was about to set her from him when her fingers sank into his hair. Her nails raked over his scalp in a delicious abrasion. She swallowed, seemingly to prepare herself, almost as if she was about to face a wall of enemy soldiers with bayonets drawn. Which was ridiculous. He was not her enemy. They were not at war. He was a dark and demented bastard, it was true, but he would not hurt her. Would never take anything more than what she would willingly offer.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her fingers guided him. She rolled to her tiptoes. Their mouths met, hungry, hot, and open. On a groan, he sank his tongue past her lips, and he knew for certain in that moment of feverish capitulation he would not rest until he was inside her. Until she was his. The instincts that had infallibly guided him through years of war—instincts he had ignored on the godawful day he’d lost his best friend—had never betrayed him.
He could make her his mistress, grant hercarte blanche. Although he had never offered his protection to anyone before her, he knew having her once or even a handful of furtive times would never satisfy him. Her tongue tangled with his.God, yes.He could find another damned governess. This woman was his and his alone. His sisters could not possibly require her as much as he did.
He hummed his satisfaction into her mouth, knowing he had found the perfect solution, and deepened the kiss.
Chapter Eight
The Duke ofWhitley kissed the way he did everything. Full-force. Blistering. Unpredictable and wild. His mouth upon hers was passionate and demanding, a conflagration of the unwanted pull between them from the moment she had first entered his study. His kiss owned her. It savaged her. Left her reeling.
Heat blossomed low in her belly, mingling with desire and a raw, frenzied need. The restless sensations he sparked within her were real and insistent though she did not want to acknowledge them. The barbarous molding of his lips to hers both shocked and enthralled her. He kissed as if he claimed her, hot and hungry, and such a disparity from his cold, harsh mien.
Caution and warning attempted to intrude. But she had plainly taken leave of her senses. That was the only explanation for the grave mistake she had made in kissing the Duke of Whitley.
In continuing to kiss him now.
In running her tongue along his, tasting him—bitter coffee with a hint of ruthlessness—in plunging her fingers into his hair. Merciful heavens, the strands were soft and thick and lustrous. She gripped handfuls and held him in place, angling his head so he would apply the pressure of his lips to hers in the fashion she preferred.
But Whitley was not a man who could be controlled, and just as quickly, his large hand cupped the base of her skull, holding her still so he could ravage her lips to his satisfaction. He took command. Groaned into her mouth. His free hand clamped to her waist. He spun them about as one, moving her backward without once breaking the drugging kiss she could not resist.
The hard edge of his desk pressed into her bottom. He lifted her effortlessly, his arm tightening like a band, and deposited her on the hard, polished expanse of intimidating mahogany. When she had first been seated opposite the exquisitely carved piece of furniture, she had never imagined she might one day be settled upon it as the Duke of Whitley kissed her more thoroughly than she had ever been kissed in her life.
She met him with an ardor she could not explain, with a fervor that shamed her. Some wicked part of her, the part that wanted more of the sin the Duke of Whitley offered, longed for this wild moment of abandon to never end. How she wished they were different people, in a different time and place, free to pursue the madness flaring to life between them.
