His rigid length, long and hard, intimidating and alluring, pressed against her belly. He kissed her with an effortless sensuality that had her coming undone. Their tongues played. Hunger and need intertwined, rolling through her like a thunderstorm.
She kissed him back, perhaps with more vigor than necessary, but she could not seem to control herself. She wanted faster. Deeper. Longer. Fuller. Harder.
Everything.
That was what she wanted from him. She wanted his kisses, his seduction, his touch, his caress.Him.Good Lord, he had takenpleasant enoughand fashioned it intonothing else shall ever compare.
His tongue was still in her mouth, his hands claiming her waist, his powerful body burning into hers, when she at long last thought of Charles.
Her betrothed. The man who, mere days ago, had kissed her with as much finesse as he was capable of producing, and whispered the three words every lady longed to hear from her suitor.
I love you.
It was the memory of those words now that at last turned the raging heat scorching her to ice. She removed her hands from Strathmore’s hair and pressed her palms to his shoulders, exerting scarcely any effort, before he tore his lips from hers and stepped away.
Her breaths were ragged, her heart beating fast, and all she could do was stare at his beautifully handsome face andthat mouth, even as she reminded herself it was Charles who loved her. Charles who would wed her. Charles only who deserved the right to kiss and touch her so intimately.
But she still tasted Strathmore on her lips, and she longed for those large hands of his, part bruising strength, part refined elegance, upon her. Her idea to offer him aid was a foolhardy one. It was the stupidest decision she had ever made. Coming to his bedchamber and letting herself in—an action she had never dared to take with any other man—not once, but twice, had been downright dangerous.
“Now then, how would you describe that kiss, my lady?” he asked.
His mellifluous voice was calm and smooth, whisky and seduction and devil-may-care all at once, as if he had been unaffected by what had passed between them.
Meanwhile, her entire world had just been rocked as if by an earthquake. She supposed if she was as beautiful as he was, she too would be self-assured. But Violet knew she was plain, her sole redemption in her long black hair.
She took a deep breath, hesitating to answer him because she was not certain if she had regained the capacity for speech, and also because taunting him was as great of a temptation as kissing him.
“Agreeable,” she said at last. “But I must insist upon not repeating such folly.”
“Agreeable?” he repeated, his eyes glinting. “And a folly?”
She feared she had thrown the gauntlet once more. “I have a betrothed,” she reminded him as much as she reminded herself.
“Flowerpot.” His tone was grim.
“Charles.” Her attempt to keep her tone stern was no doubt belied by her breathlessness, but it couldn’t be helped. “His name is Charles.”
And she must not forget him. She must keep him first in her heart and mind from this moment forward. Above all, she must not allow herself to look at Strathmore’s finely shaped lips, nor imagine what his broad chest looked like beneath his shirtsleeves. She swallowed.
Impossible, said the voice inside her, whom she had taken to calling Wicked Violet. Wicked Violet yearned for all sorts of impossible, very bad things. Wicked Violet must be ignored at all costs.
“I prefer Flowerpot to Charles.” The duke cocked his head, considering. “Speaking of which, how do you think this paragon would feel if he knew I have kissed you twice, and you have been within my chamber on no less than two occasions? And further that I am also the recipient of his seed pouch? Forgive me, Lady Violet, but you do not kiss as if you have a betrothed.”
She flushed, guilt skewering her anew. Of course, it was not any condemnation she hadn’t already heaped upon herself, but the reminder was no less jarring. She had never before been faithless with other suitors nor with Charles. What was it about the Duke of Strathmore that rendered her so?
Look at his mouth, cajoled Wicked Violet.
She would not. She would not.
She did.
And heat unfurled in her belly, and it was wrong and traitorous, and unwanted. But it would not go away. Nor could she remove her gaze from Strathmore’s lips now she had settled it there once more.
“Lady Violet?” Those lips tilted upward into a smirk.
He was amused by her flustered state, the cad.
“The…kissing was a mistake, and it shall not be repeated,” she forced herself to say, frowning at him. “And you may return the seed pouch to me if it pleases you.”
