“It cannot, or you cannot?” he asked softly, continuing the deliberate caress that wreaked such havoc upon her ability to resist him.
A simple touch, his bare skin on hers, was all she required.
“Both.” Her voice was breathless. She tugged her wrist to no avail, but it was a halfhearted attempt anyway for the truth. She loved his touch. She craved it, hungered for it, and the wickedest part of her answered to the darkest part of him.
But that did not mean she could indulge in such a selfish, ruinous fashion ever again. She was an honorable widow with a reputation above reproach. She was not fast. She had never once taken a lover, having neither inclination nor opportunity, being so ensconced in her work with Father.
Not until the Duke of Whitley, that was.
But lover was far too intimate a term to describe him. Rather, he was an indiscretion. A mistake. A regret. He had to be. Reason warred with desire.
“But you can, Jacinda,” he said low, scarcely using any strength at all to tug her into his strong, lean form.
Weak-hearted fool that she was, she fell into him, bracing herself with a palm flattened to his chest. The bouquet remained between them in her other hand, and she could not be certain whether it represented a flag of surrender or truce.
He took the bouquet and tossed it aside with a growl, hauling her to him, his lips slamming down on hers.
Surrender it was, she decided.Yes, she could. If she dared. She opened for him, her arms twining around his neck. It had been twelve hours, and if the viciousness of their kiss was any indication, they were both starving for each other. He cupped her face, holding her still for his tender onslaught.
He smelled of leather, the crispness of the outdoors, citrus, and a faint hint of smoke. She wondered where he had been, but then his mouth was hot and demanding as it blazed a trail of fire down her throat. She thought of the flowers and her heart clenched. At least part of his time away had been spent in thinking of her.
Her fingers tunneled into his thick, silky hair of their own accord, traveling over his skull, and that, like the rest of him, was shaped to perfection. Her fichu disappeared, revealing her modest décolletage to him, and she recalled the missing scrap of lace he had yet to return to her.
“I only have one more fichu,” she protested weakly as his tongue settled in the hollow at the base of her throat. “You cannot steal that one, too.”
“Mmm.” He kissed to the top of her breast, flirting with the neckline of her gown. “Buy a hundred more if you like.”
His words startled a laugh from her that ended in a squeak when his strong hands caught her waist and lifted her atop the polished surface of his imposing desk. He stared down at her, his expression warm and unguarded in a way she had never seen it before. He seemed younger in that moment, the weight of years and war gone.
She did not remove her arms from about his neck, though she knew she must. The selfish part of her wanted to wait another breath, another beat of her heart. To drink in the sight of him and tuck it into her memory for later when she could never look upon his countenance again. When she would look back on the stolen moments during which she had been the Duke of Whitley’s lover.
Reality intruded then, as it always did, in the form of her conscience pricking her. She had no widow’s portion, and Father had gambled away everything they owned. And she had no choice but to betray Whitley to save herself and Father from ruin.
But she could say none of that. “I could not buy a hundred fichus even if I wished to do so, Your Grace,” she reminded him instead.
His gray gaze darkened. “I will buy them for you as long as you agree to never wear them in my presence.”
“I cannot accept your gifts,” she said, breathless as his hands snagged the simple muslin of her gown and bunched it upward.
Cool air washed over her heated skin through her stockings. He settled himself between her thighs, his touch slipping into the hollows at the backs of her knees. “Will not,” he corrected, frowning. “First the flowers and now my offer of lace. Perhaps you will accept something else from me instead, Jacinda?”
Unadulterated want pulsed between her thighs. She swallowed, suspecting the something else to which he referred was the length of him, rigid and thick and long, a temptation pressing against her mound through the layers of clothing and respectability separating them. He caressed behind her knees, lowering his head so their mouths almost brushed.
She stared back at him, unable to look away, unable to move. He was everything she wanted and everything she could not have. “I gave you one night.”
Ever so tenderly, he laid a kiss upon the corner of her lips. “What if I want more?”
She inhaled, rubbing her cheek along the bristle of whiskers on his jaw that had already begun to grow since his morning shave. “I cannot give you that.”
But neither could she release him.
Nor could he release her, it seemed. His hands, still clenched in her skirts, traveled higher, not stopping until her hem landed about her waist. Chemise, petticoats, and muslin pooled. Strong fingers traced the curves of her hips, guiding her thighs apart. He kissed the other corner of her mouth, his lips feathering over hers in a tantalizing caress.
“Will not,” he repeated. Gently, he gripped her hips and slid her forward until her bare mound brushed the swell at the fall of his breeches. “You’re soaked, darling.”
She could not deny his statement when the proof coated his breeches. They were buff, and the economical part of her mind wondered if there would be a stain. Would his valet spot it and know the cause? Her cheeks went hot at the thought.
“You are wicked,” she scolded.
