She felt like a prisoner who had been locked away all her life, only to suddenly be handed the key. She wanted to fit the key to the lock, swing open the door, and run free.Dear heavens.Perhaps something was wrong with her. Perhaps she was inherently wicked. Whatever the case, she wanted her research to includehim.
She could acknowledge it to herself if to no one else.
“Because you are an innocent,” he growled then. “You are a lady of quality, and I am decidedly not a gentleman.”
“What if I do not wish to be an innocent?” The question fled her unintentionally. Her tongue was always ahead of her mind, saying what she felt. Speaking out of turn.
Was it her imagination, or did he sway toward her?
“Lady Frederica, I can assure you that you are out of your depths,” he gritted.
Was she?Yes. Without question.But that did not mean she longed for him any less. There was so much she wanted to know. So much she wanted to learn. Frederica was insatiable for knowledge. For research. To make her novels come to life.
Perhaps also to make herself come to life.
“Would you kiss me?” she asked, and she did not know why. Kissing Duncan Kirkwood had not been her purpose in coming here this evening. Nor had her own ruination.
His silence seemed to fill the softly lit hall, echoing all around them, mocking her.
She had made a fool of herself.
Humiliation burning through her, she tore her hands from him and spun on her heel. It would be better if she allowed him to fetch the carriage and she remained where she was, too far away to further embarrass herself. Too far away for him to tempt her. She could only hope he would leave with haste.
She could not bear to return tomorrow. Not after begging for his kiss. A man like Duncan Kirkwood would have no use for a sheltered miss. What had she been thinking? Likely, everything she had read in him had been wrong. Drat her observational skills. They were flawed. Just as she was.
Tears stung her eyes.
How would she ever write a novel when she could not even understand herself?
She heard him mutter something behind her, and then the fall of footsteps.
Hands clamped on her waist, spinning her. She lost her balance and fell into him, into his hard chest. Perplexed, Frederica glanced up at him. “What are you do—”
But she could not finish her question, for his lips were upon hers. Firm and warm and so different from the one and only kiss she had ever received. This kiss was aflame.
She forgot her shame. Forgot her tears.
Forgot everything but Duncan Kirkwood’s mouth on hers, his hands spanning her waist, his lean body burning into hers. His tongue coaxed her lips to part, and when she did, he shocked her utterly by thrusting it inside her mouth. Not roughly or rudely but slowly, a sleek foray as his kiss continued to play over her. It was voracious and yet gentle all at once, a breathtaking contradiction of slow seduction and sensual mastery.
Her hands went to his shoulders, holding herself steady against his devastating onslaught. At this proximity, one of his long legs thrust between hers thanks to her breeches, he made her dizzy. His scent filled her, and he overwhelmed her. He was everything she felt, thought, tasted.
She tastedhim, she realized, giving his tongue a tentative nudge with hers. And he tasted of pleasure and passion, of the forbidden and…cocoa with a hint of anise. All this iniquity surrounding him, liquor on every sideboard, and Duncan Kirkwood tasted of chocolate. She felt powerful in that moment, as if he had divulged a secret to her alone.
Growing bolder, she tangled her tongue with his once more, and he rewarded her with a low sound in his throat, part growl, part hum, and all satisfaction. She never wanted this moment, this kiss, to end. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over completely to the sensations, to the passion vibrating in the air, in her, between them.
His lips moved over hers with reverence, soft and slow, steady and deep. She forgot who she was, who he was. Nothing else signified. He owned her with his passionate kisses. His hands began to move, sliding inside her coat, making her tremble as he traveled slowly upward, gliding over her waistcoat.
He did not stop until he reached her breasts. They burned and ached inside her painfully tight binding. His fingers splayed open, as if cupping the mounds he knew were hidden beneath her gentleman’s attire, and through the layers, she felt that touch like a brand. His thumbs swirled, unerringly finding her nipples.
A fresh wave of sensation burst. Desperation laced through her—to tear away her coat, waistcoat, and shirt, to undo her bindings. She wanted those thumbs stroking her skin, easing away the sting, his fingers plucking at the tender buds until the only ache in them was caused by him.
Again and again, his thumbs moved while his mouth claimed hers. It was the most intimate touch she had ever received, and it changed everything. Something inside her shifted. Here was the key, in the lock, and she turned it. The lock opened.
She wanted to touch him everywhere, and so she did. Her hands found his neck first, strong and surprisingly soft to the touch above his cravat. And then her fingers sifted through his thick, sleek mane of golden hair. She framed his cheeks next, desperate to maintain their connection. Here, the tiny pricks of hundreds of his shaved whiskers abraded her skin in most delicious fashion.
His lips left hers burning, tingling, and forever altered, moving down her throat. Her fingers returned to his hair, so thick and lustrous. Somehow, his kiss upon her bare skin, directly above her madly pounding pulse, drove just as intense of a sensation through her as his kiss on her lips did. She hungered. Yearned. His mouth opened to suck her flesh above her neck cloth, his teeth delivering a bite that had her crying out, her fingers digging reflexively into his hair.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her throat, his tongue flitting over her skin. “Forbidden fruit always tastes best.” His thumbs raked over her bound nipples again, inciting an almost painful rush of pleasure.
