Chapter Eleven
It was allthe fault of the mistletoe.
That, and Eugie’s berry-red lips, beckoning him. He missed them beneath his, the plush suppleness of them, so pliant and sweet. Better than dessert. He was kissing her now, consuming her really, like the delicacy she was. She tasted of punch and Christmas and delicious woman, and he could not get enough.
He could never get enough.
Why had he allowed so many days to lapse between the last time he had owned her soft mouth and now? He did not know, but the instant his tongue swept past the seam of her lips, he vowed to make up for the lost time. The same fervor that overcame him whenever he touched her returned, stronger than ever.
Taking his breath.
Robbing his ability to think.
He released their entwined fingers so he could touch her as he longed. Everywhere. His hands traveled up her waist, higher still, over her thudding heart, to the pulse pounding on the soft column of her throat, burying in her nape. Her hair was silken.
Everything about her was rich and lustrous, so vibrant. Her fragrance of blossoming summer garden enveloped him. All his good intentions vanished, along with his need to maintain propriety. Because she was in his arms where she belonged, and her tongue was playing against his, the bounty of her breasts crushed into his chest.
AndChrist, but he could feel the hardness of her nipples prodding him like twin diamonds through all their combined layers. He could not resist finding them and tweaking the buds, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger until he earned a moan from deep in her throat. Husky and mellifluous, that sound made him want more.
He sucked on her lower lip, then nipped it with his teeth, overwhelmed by the voracious need to claim her. And then he licked away the sting before kissing her deeper, then finding his way down her neck to her ear. He nuzzled the hollow there, pleased to discover how sensitive she was when he used his tongue to advantage. A few well-placed licks, and her hands were on his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles like a kitten’s claws.
Yes, he wanted her ferocious. He wanted her as desperate as he was. Now that he had begun, he could not stop. He had intended to take one kiss from her beneath the mistletoe ball. He ought to have known better. Ought to have understood he could never stop at just one kiss when it came to Eugie Winter.
He was desperate to be inside her again, his cock rigid and aching, as he recalled the heat and grip of her, the feeling of sliding home. He bit the fleshy lobe of her ear, then kissed the shell, rocking into her softness with his hardness. Letting her feel how much he wanted her. And he could tell the moment she understood, for she emitted a gasp, and then moved nearer to him, until every part of their bodies was flush, from head to toe.
“Marry me,” he whispered into her ear.
He could not take her again until they were wed, he told himself. Though he had been making every effort to earn her trust and win her hand, she had yet to let down her walls. But now, he could almost feel something inside her shifting. Could feel the same response in himself.
He was changing.
Shehad changed him.
And he welcomed that, just as he welcomed her. Because he wanted roses in his gardens and Eugie in his bed. He wanted the woman in the red dress who had looked upon him with such scorn when they had met. He wanted the lady who loved gardens and libraries in equal measure. The lady who was wicked. The lady whose reputation was altogether wrong.
He had always wanted her, from that first night on, although he had known he should not. And he wanted her now, more than ever. More with each kiss. Each breath.
But she had not answered him. He raised his head and stared down into her upturned face, into those warm, brown eyes with their impossibly thick lashes. Into the face of the woman he wanted to make his countess.
The woman he wanted to spend every night with for the rest of his life.
The woman he loved.
“Eugie,” he rasped, needing to fill the silence that had descended between them with something. Needing to chase away the realization he was not yet ready to accept.
Love? Could it be?
“I…” Her words trailed off, and she frowned, looking away from him. “I am not ready to accept such a fate yet.”
Such a fate.
He stiffened, inwardly grasping the vexation her words inspired in him with both hands. “The notion of becoming my countess still displeases you?”
She swallowed. “I scarcely know you.”
“What do you wish to know of me?” he asked, frustration rising, mingling with the desire, warring for supremacy.
“Everything,” she said, her eyes wide. “I need more time, Cam. The notion of binding myself to you, knowing you are in need of my dowry…it frightens me.”
