Love.
She knew he did not mean the word in its truest sense. And yet, the endearment still had an effect on her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Thank the Lord,” he murmured.
The hand that was raising her hems slid to the curve of her hip, massaging her gently there, his fingers gliding to take a handful of her rump and squeeze.
“Oh.” It was half moan, half plea. Torn from her. She liked his touch there. She liked his toucheverywhere.
The hand he had plunged into her hair left, and he kissed her cheek, her jaw, her throat. Fingers danced over the split of her drawers.
She was on fire.
But he was far from finished. He caressed her for a moment through the cotton of her drawers, and then he cupped her mound, taking all of her and holding her there in an act of such shocking possession, she nearly swooned. His touch remained gentle, claiming. But she could disentangle herself from him with scarcely any effort. Only, she did not wish to.
“Do you have any notion how badly I want to take you, Elysande?” he rasped. “Christ. Of course you don’t, else you would not be here now. Run, love. Go now before I take us any further.”
She was not about to leave.
This was what she wanted, raw and real and wild.
This was the passion she had only begun to know before he had abruptly left Brinton Manor and her behind.
“I do not run from anything,” she told him.
He kissed her cheek once more. “Sweet Elysande. You should.”
As he issued the warning, his thumb pressed over that maddening bud, separated from his bare skin by the thin barrier of cotton. She was even wetter now, and she was sure he must feel it.
“I am not running,” she said. “I am staying right here.”
“Fuck.” It was the second time he had cursed since she had joined him in the library, an indication of his waning restraint. “Your drawers are damp. You’re wet for me, aren’t you, Ellie?”
His wicked words and the combination of her family’s name for her, used by him for the first time, made her dizzy. That knowing thumb of his moved over her, making her jerk and cry out.
But it was not enough. She wanted his skin on hers. Wanted him to slide his big hand into the slit in her undergarments and touch her any way he liked.
She kissed along his jaw, determined to make him every bit as weak and desperate as he was making her. And then she tipped her head back, watching him, running her tongue over her lips so she could taste him, musky and salty and good. Would he taste that way everywhere? She wanted to know.
“Hudson, more please,” she said, scarcely knowing what she was begging for, only that what she wanted was more.
“More what?” he asked, still toying with her. Light whirls now, scarcely any pressure at all.
Her hips bucked impatiently, seeking him.
“I want your hand inside,” she managed to say through the haze of lust fogging her mind. “Inside my drawers. On me.”
“With pleasure.”
At last, he parted the slit, and his fingers skimmed over her seam. One slow travel from her entrance to her pearl, then back again.
He hummed his approval. “So hot and wet and responsive.”
Her knees threatened to buckle. She clutched his shoulders, using him to keep herself steady. His fingers played over her sensitive bud, skin on eager skin. Lightly at first, nothing more than the whisper of a touch.
“Like this?” he asked, voice dark and deep and knowing.
“Yes,” she hissed, breathless, her body swaying into his.
