Her touch was hesitant. Encouraging.
He inhaled swiftly against a bolt of pure, unadulterated lust. His ballocks were drawn tight. The cloud of her scent enveloped him, summery and bright. She smelled like the garden of temptation. And how ironic that was, for she was his temptress, his call to sin.
He would not regret a single damned moment of sinning with this woman, and he knew it.
“Kissing lessons,” he repeated, because his mind had largely ceased to function. But pretending to misunderstand her did nothing to abate the problem.
There was only one solution: lips and tongue and teeth.
“Yes,” she agreed, stroking his shoulders. “Those.”
He forgot her ankle was injured for a moment. Forgot everything but her acquiescence and her lips. Her plump, ripe lips, so pink, so delicious, so ready for the taking. And take he did. He slammed his mouth against hers. No finesse. He was still learning. Also, he was ravenous.
Christabella did not seem to mind.
She moaned into his mouth, opening beneath his neophyte onslaught. Their tongues met. Her fingers sank into his hair. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Until he moved her, and she emitted a small sound of dismay.
It was enough.
He pulled away, reminded of her twisted ankle.
“Forgive me,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts. “It was not my intention to—”
“Hush.” She pressed her forefinger against his lips, canceling further words. “Do not apologize for kissing me. Never apologize for that.”
He kissed the fleshy pad.
She ran her fingertip over his upper lip first, then the lower, her expression one of mesmerized fascination. Fire swept through him, starting where she touched him and licking down his spine, spreading everywhere.
“Your mouth is lovely,” she said.
No one had ever told him such a thing before. He wanted to speak, but all that emerged was a strangled sound. It was not his affliction, he thought. But rather the maddening effect this woman had upon him. He would happily remain on his knees, allowing her to touch his lips, for the rest of his days.
“Why do you have to be so handsome?” she asked him then, frowning as if he had displeased her.
He thought he had an agreeable face and form, but he was no rakehell like his brother. Ladies did not chase after him. He swallowed. Tried to think of something else to say.
Ah, yes.
The ankle.
“Shall I tend to your ankle now?” he asked.
“It is nothing,” she said. “I twisted it when I collided with Lady Adele.”
Despite her protestations, he knew it must have pained her. What a beast he was, kissing her when she had an injury. What had he been thinking?
Grimly, he took her hand in his and placed it in her lap. “Let me have a look.”
Before she could protest, he lifted the hem of her gown and petticoats, careful not to raise it too high lest he tempt himself any further. Her ankles were a thing of wonder, covered in white stockings, dainty and feminine.Good God, who had thought a woman’s feet could be alluring? Certainly not Gill, but the sight of Christabella Winter’s slippers and curved calves were setting his heart pounding.
He forced himself to recall which ankle she had been favoring, then gently took up her left foot. It did not appear to be swollen. He moved her foot slowly, first one way, then the other.
Gill glanced up at her. “How does that feel?”
“The pain is a bit higher,” she told him.
He allowed his hands to glide up her calf. “Here?”
