She liked this man far, far too much. More than was proper, it was certain. More than she ought to like a gentleman who was not a rake. Not the man she was going to wed.
But he had proposed to her, had he not?
Yes, though it had been abrupt and punctuated by his hasty retreat from the salon that day, he had indeed asked her to marry him. What would she have said, had he not gone? What would she say if he asked her now?
Yes.
No.
Yes.
Certainly not.
Oh, what a dreadful snare to find herself trapped in: a handsome man who was not a rake. A man who had never even taken a woman to his bed. Christabella knew she ought to be ignorant of such matters, but the books she read, along with some light lectures from her sister-in-law Lady Emilia, had given her all the knowledge she needed without a physical demonstration.
Obviously, the physical demonstration would be preferable to words.
Yes, indeed. It would be.
She forgot all the reasons why she should tell Gill to go. Why she should insist upon guarding her reputation. Because kissing him—good Lord, his lips on hers—it felt unbearably wonderful and wild. And she could not get enough. She was pulsing and aching everywhere, coming to life. She was a bud blossoming into a hothouse flower.
And she wanted to bloom.
For him.
With him.
His tongue toyed with hers. This was the most delicious part of kissing, she found—open mouths, tongues writhing—carnal and raw. Or perhaps it was simply the act of kissing Gill, a man who seemed so serious and icy, but who melted for her with such ease.
Her arms were around his neck, and she was clutching him to her, breasts against his chest, tongue meeting his for every thrust. If there were any lingering throbs of pain in her ankle, she forgot them altogether. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks. Her breasts felt full and achy. Her entire body felt as if it had been doused in flame.
In sensual flame.
They were seated alongside each other, making their embrace awkward, the angle of their necks uncomfortable. Instinct guided her. She placed her hands flat on the hard plane of his chest, and gave him a gentle shove.
He ended the kiss, his sky-blue gaze glazed, the obsidian discs of his pupils huge. He blinked, confusion evident on his handsome face.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, clearly thinking he needed to apologize.
How wrong he was.
She gave him another tender push, guiding him so that his broad shoulders met with the back of the settee. And then she grasped her skirt in her hands, lifting it to her waist as she straddled his lap. Fortunately, such a position did not require any weight to be distributed upon her ankle.
But who cared about ankles now?
As the already sensitive flesh between her thighs met his breeches and the straining bulge of his manhood beneath them, the breath fled her lungs. She did not think she even knew what an ankle was. Nor would she ever require one again.
All she did require was this. Him.
He was so large, larger even than he had seemed as he sat alongside her. She could see it now, from her vantage point atop him, in a way she had not been able to truly appreciate before. His shoulders were strong and wide. His arms were muscled and long. His chest was hard. His abdomen was flat and lean.
She liked this, being the one in control. She liked being on his lap.
And he liked having her there.
“Belle,” he said, his voice low. His countenance was slack with pleasure. His body was taut with need. “What are you doing?”
No one had ever called her Belle before. Christabella, yes. Christabella Mary, also yes. Belle? No. Not anyone. Not untilhim. And she had to admit, she liked it. As much as she liked the sensation of his rock-hard staff beneath her.
