In his decadent baritone, it rumbled with carnality. She felt like a goddess. And he was worshiping at her altar. Touching her, leaving fire in his wake. The knot holding her dressing gown in place loosened. The garment gaped, and then her hem went higher still, while his nimble fingers worked the buttons on the modest neckline of her night rail. One by one they slid from their moorings. His lips chased each new inch of skin he revealed, kissing down her throat, past her collarbone.
His thigh moved, and she mourned the loss of him between her legs until his hand was there, his fingers delving into her tender flesh where she hungered for him most.
Two gasps rent the night, one his, one hers.
“You’re drenched, darling.”
And she was. And he had called herdarling. He did not mean it. She did not care. His blunt-tipped fingers parted her and made the most astounding revelation: a place on her body capable of more pleasure than she had imagined existed. He found a particularly sensitive spot, swirling a caress over it that made her knees give out and a sob flee her lips.
He was there to catch her. To kiss her. To swallow her cry and keep her from falling to the floor. She kissed him back, clutching him with all the desire flooding her. Until she felt him stiffen, and he tore his mouth away.
A low curse fell between them.
“What—”
He pressed a finger over her lips, stilling her words. “Hush. I heard a door open. Footsteps. Come.”
Somehow, her fingers connected with his, and they interlaced just before he began tugging her wildly through the hall. She hoped he knew where he was going better than she. A creak in the hall somewhere behind them alerted her they were not alone. Her heart was pounding, her body peculiarly alive with a combination of fear and desire.
In a blink, they reached a door with a thin slat of light glowing beneath it. He hauled it open and pulled her over the threshold, closing the door quickly, almost soundlessly. She stood at his side, their fingers still entwined. In the warm glow of the brace of candles left burning in the chamber, she could not help but to admire the figure he cut. He was taller than most gentlemen, with long legs encased in breeches. In nothing but his white shirt, he looked almost raffish.
Like a highwayman of old.
“Hertford,” she began, but he hushed her with a finger to her lips.
Beyond the door, the unmistakable creak of footsteps sounded down the hall.
Someone else was definitely awake despite the lateness of the hour. And that particular someone else was wandering the halls. Which meant their chances of getting caught were greatly increased.
Still, she did not care for the manner in which he had silenced her. Perhaps it was the revelation of their encounter in the hall, perhaps it was the lack of sleep making her bold. She did not know. But the pad of his finger remained firmly upon the center of her lips.
So she did the only thing she could think of doing as she stood in a chamber—Lord knew whose it was, but she hoped it was his—thoroughly kissed, half-undressed, and teeming with unanswered desire.
She licked his finger.
His attention had been toward the door, but she had all of it now. That hazel gaze was upon her. Searing her. At last, she had what the murk had denied her: the masculine beauty of his face. She could not look away.
And then, her tongue darted out once more. The taste of him was musky. His eyes grew hooded. The air between them was once more filled with tension, rather like the summer sky before a bolt of lightning tore across the stormy blue.
His finger slipped past her lips, into her mouth. She sucked on it.
A low sound emerged from him. “Do you taste yourself?” he whispered.
Surely this was the height of wickedness. She was alone with the Earl of Hertford, his finger in her mouth, the same finger he had used to pleasure her in the hall. The muskiness on his skin was hers.
She ought to be disgusted. Ashamed. Shocked.
But his eyes were burning into hers, and he withdrew his finger from her mouth, then used the wetness of her saliva to paint over her lower lip. “You should not be here.”
No, she should not. She should not have done any number of things with this man. Kissed him. Been alone with him. Allowed him to lift her skirts. To touch her intimately. To believe the worst of her, which he still surely did. Somehow, it did not matter that much, not with longing coursing through her veins, wickedness making her weak, her heart pounding, her body aflame. Not when he was near, when her ability to think dissipated.
With great effort, she reminded herself he thought she was ruined. He thought the rumors which had been spread about her were true. But then, she remembered, so did half of London.
“Whose chamber is this?” she asked instead of stopping him. Instead of putting an end to this madness.
“Mine,” he told her softly, his finger still gliding from left to right over her lip, his gaze yet burning into hers.
His.
