His hands landed on her waist, and it felt so familiar, so possessive. “Just like this.”
Was he going to kiss her again? She fervently hoped he would. He had awakened her to passion before leaving her alone for a month. Some nights, she had lain in bed, wondering if she had imagined the conflagration which had burned between them that morning. But this, here and now, was all the proof she needed.
It had been real.
“Hudson,” she said softly, taking the opportunity to study the symmetry of his face. Slashing cheekbones, dark brows, a high forehead. The blade of his nose was almost too long, and yet it suited him, bringing strength and character to his face. Was it wrong that she wanted to feel the rasp of those whiskers against her lips? That she wanted to set her mouth on the rigid line of his jaw and kiss him there?
“Fuck,” he bit out, leaning his forehead against hers and taking a swift inhalation of breath. “I want you so badly, Elysande. I do not trust myself. You should go to bed. Alone.”
His vulgar curse titillated rather than shocked her. She appreciated this small sign he was not entirely in control of himself. And further, that the lapse of his customary restraint was because ofher.
Suddenly, the prospect of returning to her bed and lying beneath the covers, thinking of him but unable to touch him, seemed a terrible punishment. She had been raised to do what she wanted, within reason. Anything short of ruining herself or refusing to marry. But she was not ruined, and this man was her husband now. And she wanted him. He was hurting, he was bitter, and he had been as alone as she had this last month.
Elysande shifted, surrendering to her need. Her lips found the rough patch of whisker-studded jaw. She kissed him there, absorbed the clench of his muscles, the alluring maleness of him, the tension. Wished she could take away some of his concerns.
The fingers on her waist tightened, and he inhaled again, the sound sharp in the silence of the library, no noise save the merrily crackling fire in the grate. “Elysande.”
Her name was a warning she ignored. Instead, she kissed him as he had done to her before, taking her time. She trailed a path to his ear, and then she kissed the shell of skin, his too-long dark hair brushing against her nose, and whispered his name.
He groaned. Whether it was in desire or surrender, she could not tell. But it felt like a reward when he nuzzled her hair. And especially when his days-old beard rasped against the softness of her cheek. The abrasion was delicious, and so was he.
She was lost in him, lost in her need. She may as well have been back at Brinton Manor, on the sun-stained lake shore. Rolling in the grass with him, his tongue working its magic on her. Remembrance woke her in places only she had touched since, beneath the secrecy of darkness, alone in her bed. Her nipples were aching and stiff against her corset, the same swelling ache pooling in her belly and settling lower. Between her thighs, she could feel her wetness dampening her drawers.
And they had yet to even properly kiss.
Time to rectify the matter.
Elysande was unaware which of them seduced the other. Perhaps it was both of them, perhaps it was she who had instigated it. Certainly, as he drew his head back to snare her in his steady gaze, it was he who seduced. Need burned in his eyes. She recognized that look, for she felt an answering hunger deep within.
They held each other’s gazes in a moment that could have lasted minutes or seconds or forever. He cupped her face with one hand, the action so painstakingly tender, she melted inside.
“You are so damned lovely,” he said softly. “Do you know that? I want to learn everything there is to know about you.”
And she wanted to tell him, to give him all of herself.Everything.She wanted to give him everything. What was wrong with her? What had he done, what spell had he cast?
She leaned into him, and their lips met. His were soft and full and lush. Hotter than she remembered but every bit as skilled. He knew how to take control, slanting his mouth over hers, his hand sliding from her cheek to cup her head instead. Long fingers slid into her tidy chignon, sending pins raining to the floor.
She did not care that they were gone or where they fell. Her own hand slid from his shoulder, her left hand, the one bearing his ring. The symbol of their union which had mocked her every day since he had left. Elysande caught a fistful of his shirt and held him to her, kissing him back with all the pent-up yearning which had been haunting her through the entire time they had been apart.
His tongue slipped inside to tease hers, and he tasted of brandy and the biscuit pudding with raspberry sauce which had followed dinner. Sweet and yet with a decadent depth, much like the man himself. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers, before he caught her lower lip in his teeth and gently tugged.
It was as if an invisible string led directly to her core, and each nip he gave her pulled it tighter, brought her nearer to the edge of complete abandon. Dimly, she recalled they were in the sadly understocked library, her reason for seeking him out in London, the month they had spent apart.
Was this wise?
Most definitely not.
But then, his other hand, the one on her waist, began to caress her there. He played her as if she were an instrument, knowing with the inherent talent of a musician how fast, how slow, when to apply pressure, when to tease. Over her belly, that knowing hand traveled while he feasted on her lips, nibbling and licking and sucking until her knees turned to aspic and threatened to send her sprawling to the faded carpets. His palm pressed into her, then slid lower, hovering over her sex where she ached.
But he did not press deeper into the voluminous fall of her skirts and underpinnings. Instead, he caught a fistful of silk and began lifting her hem leisurely. He slowed his kisses, his lips traveling over hers with languorous and lush attention to the bow of her lips, the corners of her mouth, taking her breath, making her heart pound.
Up went her hem, and faster went her pulse. Form a race to a full gallop. Cool air rushed over her ankles as the whisper of silk and satin added to the blatantly erotic sound of their fused mouths. Fabric slipped past her knees.
Then higher, kissing the tops of her thighs.
He was first to break the kiss, raising his head to stare down at her with an intensity she had only seen on his face once before. That morning by the lake, when he had made love to her in the grass. She recognized the expression now, the hunger burning in his eyes. He wanted her.
“I need to touch you,” he said. “Please let me touch you, love.”
