On hisbare, well-muscled, impossibly hot chest.
One of his hands flattened to the small of her back where it curved just above her bottom. The other grasped her waist in a possessive hold, his fingers gripping lightly enough that it was not painful and yet firmly, keeping her where she was, trapped as surely as she had been under that dratted bed of his. Except, the confining darkness there had been stifling and unpleasant whereas being held in place by Ridgely was neither of those.
No, indeed, it was heady. Decadent.Potent.It made her heart pound and awareness unlike any which she had previously known blossom in the lowest part of her belly. It made her breasts, where they pressed into him, ache, her nipples tightening beneath her stays. It made her body feel languorous and heavy, and it made an impossible longing—a desperate need—pulse between her thighs.
There was a name for this wickedness the Duke of Ridgely made her feel.
Desire.
Yes, as impossible and stupid as it was, she desired him. She was conscious of him as a woman was aware of a man. And she was aware of every part of him, from the satiny-smooth skin of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair beneath her fingertips, to his masculine strength. From his wickedly seductive lips, still curled in a knowing half smile, to the defining slash of his jaw shaded by the prickle of whiskers. From his scent, man and musk and the freshness of citrus, to his clever gaze as it hovered on her mouth.
Some dim part of her befuddled mind told Virtue this was wrong, the way she felt, her body’s reaction to his. Because she could not possibly long for the Duke of Ridgely with such skin-tingling furor, as if his touch, his presence, the man himself, were essential for her continued existence. As if her next breath depended upon his hands cleverly caressing as they had done in the shadows under the bed, touching her where no one had dared, lighting a fire inside her she hadn’t previously dreamed existed.
She didn’t even like him.
He had stolen her books.
He was intent upon selling her home.
He had foisted her off onto his sister as if she were an unwanted chore.
He was a known rakehell.
Yes, he was deplorable.
And she was appalled to realize that none of that mattered. Common sense could not prevail, and nor could it mollify the ache. She wanted to rub herself against him like a cat. Wanted to rise on her toes and claim those smirking lips with hers. She wanted things she wasn’t certain existed. Wanted dark whispers and decadent caresses. But only fromhim.
She shocked herself.
“Steady?” he asked.
Even the low timbre of his voice made something inside her turn molten. Liquid. Her insides were jumbled. Her heart was pounding.
She should push away from him. Should stop touching his chest.
But she didn’t want to, and he didn’t show any inclination of releasing her either.
“Yes,” Virtue said instead, staying right where she was, in the maddening circle of his embrace. And then she remembered something, forced her sluggish mind to work. “You knew I was there, under the bed.”
There was a slight inclination of his head, his wicked gaze burning into hers. “Of course.”
There was a quickening in her belly, an acknowledgment of what that meant. But she needed him to say it. Neededhimto say it, even though she knew that when he did, everything would change. But then, perhaps it had already changed.
“For how long?” she asked.
Had he known when he had undone his cravat? When he had stripped away his shirt and waistcoat?
The customary arrogance Ridgely exuded faded, an uncharacteristic seriousness settling on his countenance as his gaze burned into hers. “From the moment I crossed the threshold.”
“You…oh.”
She was breathless. Shocked at the implication, although it came as no surprise.
“You aren’t nearly as clever as you think yourself, my dear.”
“But you disrobed,” she pointed out needlessly, as if they were both unaware of his state of dishabille.
He was half-naked before her.
