Which meant no one would interrupt them.
Which meant…
Danger.
Temptation.
“I should go,” she whispered.
“You should wait,” he countered. “Whoever is moving about in the halls could return at any moment.”
He stepped closer to her.
She met him. Their bodies collided. And then he was cupping her jaw, kissing her sweetly. Tenderly. Deeper. He licked past the seam of her lips, running his tongue along hers.
Eugie’s arms wound around his neck. She was not going anywhere. Did not want to. Her tongue ran against his. They were moving again, but this time it was not toward a wall. It was toward the rumpled bed her frantic eyes had spotted in the shadows.
She knew it. Did not stop it. In fact, she wanted it.
All her life, she had lived in the shadow of being a Winter. Wealthy but reviled. Scorned for her name rather than who she was. And later, thanks to the baron, scorned for lies he had invented to humiliate her after she had denied his suit.
But here she was, the wickedest of the Winters, desired by an earl. The reasons were all wrong, but the desire was not. The desire was real and strong and overwhelming. And so, when they traveled all the way to his bed, and when the backs of her thighs connected with the giving edge of the mattress, she did not protest, because it—he—was what she wanted.
His kisses, his touch,him. Everything. Whatever it would mean.
The Earl of Hertford had the most unusual ability to set her aflame, and she did not want it to end. Not his touch. Not his kiss. Not this night.
They were still kissing as they fell to the bed together. He braced himself over her on his forearms, keeping the full weight of his body from slamming into her with their undignified landing. She giggled up at him, linked her arms around his neck, and then the time for levity was done.
His mouth swooped back down on hers. He kissed her as if he could not resist, as if he needed to drink from her lips. It was a union of tongues and mouths, the scrape of teeth. Primal. Powerful.
A new wave of sensation hit her, like the crashing furor of the ocean in the midst of a maelstrom. Dev had taken them all to Brighton once, and a storm had been brewing, which had rendered bathing in the ocean entirely impossible. But watching the waves had been beautiful. Shocking. Life at its rawest and fullest capacity.
Which was how she felt now, in this moment. She was a tempest which had been brewing for years. The Earl of Hertford was the powder keg that had been sparked into flame. And she was burning for him. Alight and so very alive.
Either she would douse his flames, or he would burn her up, for they were not meant for each other. She knew it. He had said it. And yet, they could not resist each other. She could not return to her chamber as she ought. And she could not stop touching him, kissing him.
But she was in good company, for neither could he.
Somehow, they wrestled her free of her dressing gown while she was still on her back. Then his shirt, too, was gone, pulled over his head and tossed to the floor. His chest was a revelation. In the soft glow of the light, she could at last see what she had felt in the hall. Dark springs of curls dotted his chest. His muscles were clearly delineated bands on his abdomen.
She ran her hand up and down his bare chest, absorbing every sinew, every rigid slab. He was warm and smooth and vital, his body tensing beneath her questing touch.
Wrong had never felt so deliciously, wickedly right.
Chapter Seven
Cam had tostop kissing Miss Eugie Winter.
Hewouldstop kissing her, he promised himself. After just one more. And another.
Soon.
Or perhaps later. What was the harm in lingering with her just a bit longer? In allowing just a few more liberties after so many boundaries had been crossed between them, not just this night but on previous occasions?
Besides, she felt far too good in his arms. Far too right in his bed. Her lips were made for his, and they were currently kissing him back with all the need firing his blood. Her tongue touched his, and he was nearly gone. About to spend into his breeches like a callow lad.
He forgot about propriety. Ignored the rules. He had devoted his life to living above reproach. He had cultivated his reputation. Had never brought one moment of shame upon his mother, upon himself.
