He wanted her in a thousand different ways. In every damned chamber of this bloody house. He wanted her beneath him, atop him.Good God, and all this pent-up need from one kiss.
She sucked his tongue, and his cockstand went even more rigid. He inhaled sharply. A mistake, because he was just breathing in more of her. She was consuming him, surrounding him. He kissed her harder, not taking care to be gentle as she undoubtedly deserved.
But she kissed him back with equal fervor. She pressed closer. Her hands moved from his chest, twining around his neck. He glided his touch over the smooth fabric of her bodice, following the curve of her back all the way to the stiff collar at her nape. He found the silken swath of skin there, and then the sleek glory of her hair.
He kissed her as he plucked pins from her hair, sending them dropping to the carpet wherever they fell. Thick, heavy curls spilled over his fingers as he freed her tresses from the wretched bun into which she had tamed them that morning. Another surge of lust arrowed through him.
More. He had to have more of her. All of her.
He never should have kissed her back. He never should have touched her hands, led her across the library. He never should have taken her in his arms. Because before she had been a spark in his blood, but now she was a conflagration.
Her tongue slid tentatively against his, and he groaned into her mouth at the intoxicating thrill of it. Prim Miss Hilgrove had a wild, passionate side hiding beneath her severe exterior. And he was ravenous for that part of her.
Desperate.
More pins hit the carpet with dull thuds. His senses were ridiculously honed, making him aware of everything—her ragged breaths, the soft murmurings of her pleasure, mingling with the crackling of the fire. His body was heated. Her fingers had drifted back to his chest, and she clutched at his lapels, grasping fistfuls of his coat and dragging him closer to her still. As if she feared he would fly from her if she released him.
No chance of that.
He had her where he had wanted her since the moment she had first stormed into his chamber in high dudgeon. Almost. Because where he truly wanted her was in his bed, and not just in his arms. But this was a start. It was something more than what he had hoped for since her assertion she could not afford to be reckless with him.
He had been angry with himself the day before, for wanting her as much as he did when it made no sense. For making himself vulnerable to her only to be dismissed. He had spent all the hours following that tense encounter inwardly berating himself for his weakness. Telling himself he would visit Roberta that night.
But he had dined with Callie instead, and he had fallen asleep once more to thoughts of the woman kissing him back with all the fury infecting his soul. He had taken himself in hand.
Twice.
Still, he had risen this morning with a cockstand that had only abated through sheer force of will and the application of cold water. When she had entered and gone immediately to the writing machine, which he had deliberately had removed to the opposite end of the library once more, he had told himself it was for the best.
That the distance was necessary.
But then, she had dropped those damned papers all over the floor, and he had not been able to stay away. Staying away from her would be more impossible now that he knew how she came to life in his arms. Now that he knew how she tasted.
There was not a pin left to remove now. Her hair fell down her back in cascading waves, and still he kissed her with relentless hunger. His fingers found the line of buttons beginning at her high-necked bodice, just at the base of her throat. He began plucking, one by one.
This was no planned seduction. This was a maelstrom. He had lost control, and there was no stopping him now. It was wrong, he knew it, and yet he could not tear his mouth from hers. Could not end the kiss. He filled his left hand with her hair, angling her head as he wanted, allowing him greater access to her lips and to the skin he revealed at her throat.
With his right hand, he continued flicking the endless line of buttons from their moorings. At last, he felt her warm flesh, sleek and supple. He flattened his palm over her racing heart, absorbing the frantic thumps, reveling in the heat of her skin. Without ending their kiss, he caressed lower. He found his way beneath her chemise, inside her corset.
His hand curved around her breast. Her nipple was a hard little bud within. Lust roared to his cock. She whimpered into his kiss, straining toward him, arching her back. He rolled the stiff peak between his thumb and forefinger.
What a sensual creature she hid beneath all her layers. This Miss Hilgrove was a revelation. His mouth moved over hers, claiming, urging her response. He had never wanted to possess a woman more. He wanted to pull her to the floor, raise her skirts, and lose himself in her.
He had not believed himself capable of such savagery, but then neither had he ever experienced such passion. Something within him—the tattered shreds of his honor, his conscience—told him he needed to put an end to this madness. He should not undo one more button, should not give her one more kiss.
And he would stop, he promised himself. Soon. He would regain his senses. He would tear his lips from hers, take a step back. He would remember he was a gentleman, and a duke at that, and she was an unwed lady in his employ.
One more kiss turned into another.
And then another.
Until a different feminine gasp tore through the sensual haze fogging his mind.
Unlike the delicious, breathy sounds Miss Hilgrove made when he kissed her, however, this gasp was familiar. And it was coming from the threshold of the library.
Callie.
Damn and blast.
