But her husband did not listen. Of course not. He never listened. Not when it came to her desire to maintain distance between them. He took her hands in his and helped her to stand, pulling her chair away.
“You are still hiccupping, my love,” he observed, pulling her into his chest.
She went. Yes, she did. Later, she would blame it on the wine. She would tell herself she had been in her cups. But for now, she pressed herself into his big, strong body. She was wanton and eager. A lamb for the slaughter. Forgetting all the reasons why she must keep her distance.
“I am—hiccup—not,” she protested breathlessly, her hands on his chest.
Tenderly, he swept a curl from her cheek. He cupped her face in his big, warm hands. “You have just proven yourself wrong. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy the irony, just a bit.”
She should push away from him. Return to her chair. Eat her dinner in peace.
Instead, she found herself melting into him. He was so sturdy, so muscular. He had never failed to make her feel safe. Protected. Wanted. Always wanted. Until the day he had not.
But somehow, she could not think about that now as another hiccup fled her lips.
“If you think I am going to allow you to cure my hiccups in the same fashion as the Desborough ball, you are wrong,” she told him, punctuating her sentence with yet another hiccup.
His thumbs swept over her cheekbones. “Do you want me to fuck you on the dining room table in the midst of dinner, Nellie? Say the word, and I’ll be eating your sweet cunny for the next course instead of the mutton pie.”
His vulgarity only made her want him more. There was something wrong with her, surely. Only a fool would find herself so desperate with lust for a man who had proven himself untrustworthy in the most dastardly fashion possible. But the ache was there. Undeniable.
She licked her lower lip. “Mutton pie is the next course?” she asked, just to taunt him.
Because the truth was, she was out of her mind with wanting him. Just from his nearness, his touch, his scent, his green eyes locked on her lips, his wicked, wicked words. How long had it been since he had pleasured her thus? Years. Too long. Far, far too long.
The mere mentioning of it had her pearl swelling. Ready.Dear God, the sensual feats he had once performed upon her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
“I will make you forget about the damned mutton pie,” he vowed.
His mouth was on hers in the next breath, hot, insistent. Demanding.
Making her forget everything, including all the reasons why she ought to resist. And especially all the reasons why she should not kiss him back. His tongue slid into her mouth. She welcomed it.
They were moving, then. Moving as he kissed her. Moving as he owned her mouth. He guided her backward. His hands fell to her waist, clutching her, and in the next moment, she was being lifted to the table. She had just enough wits about her to catch herself on her palms, feeling frantically for crockery and silverware.
Her hands met with nothing but cool, polished wood.
Jack jerked back, ending the kiss, staring down at her with an inscrutable expression, his chest heaving with the force of his breasts. His mouth was dark from their shared kisses. “Lift your skirts.”
She could deny him. She knew it. She could put an end to this.
But she was too far gone. She did not want to put an end to this. She wanted his tongue on her, in her. Once more, she was weak, so very weak, for him.
She caught fistfuls of black silk, and she raised them. But because she could not allow him to take full control, she kept her knees together. Her skirts were crumpled about her waist, her stocking-clad legs on display. She had not worn drawers this evening because she found them cumbersome. Her garters were pink, her hose a brilliant red, in stark contrast to her mournful dress. She had not supposed he would see either when she had dressed.
But that had been three glasses of wine and a half-dozen potent kisses with Jack ago.
“No drawers. Fuck, I love your legs,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Open them. I’m going to suck your sweet pearl until you scream.”
Good God.
She bit her lip. Hard. Fought against the potent, heady wave of need. And kept her knees clamped tightly together. “Only if you ask politely.”
“Please.” His response was instant.
But it was her turn to tease. Her turn to be the one in control. Her hiccups were long gone already, and she could not even pretend that was what this was about. No, indeed. This stolen moment was about her pleasure.
“You need to be more specific, my lord,” she told him. “What do you want?”
