“Relaxing,” he said slowly, “as you suggested.”
There it was again, the hint of an accent flirting with his words. She wondered again at where he was truly from, with his unusual features, the traces of a foreign tongue lacing his speech when he forgot himself. Wondered at his secrets. At the reason why he never smiled.
Foolish, dangerous thoughts she couldn’t afford to entertain. She had to escape his sinful clutches before she did something even more reckless than inviting him to stay whilst she sketched him had been. Pamela shifted on his lap, intending to remove herself and stand.
But that was when she felt it. Felthim. Thickening and stiffening beneath her. An answering ache throbbed to life between her thighs. That part of him felt quite the opposite of relaxed. And Pamela knew she ought to be scandalized, but she had always been a woman with a keen sensual nature. Something about this man had brought it back to life from a years-long slumber.
“This was decidedly not what I had in mind,” she informed him as cooly as she could manage with so much fire licking at her from the inside, heating her blood. “You are once again being far too familiar with my person, sir, and this time, you haven’t even the excuse of a fire iron.”
“Wasn’t it?” he asked softly, his eyes dipping to her lips. “Did you not think it reckless to invite me to linger alone with you at this hour of the night?”
What could she say? Of course she thought it reckless.
He was going to kiss her.
She knew it. Could see the intent as clearly as she could discern the flecks of gray and green in his irises. His head lowered slowly, slowly. He was giving her time, she realized. Granting her the opportunity to push away from him and stand, just as he had held her before in a grasp she could have so easily slipped from, after their initial sparring.
Closer, his warm breath fanning over her mouth in a prelude that had her moving to meet him instead of retreating. She tipped her head back, waiting. Through the dark wool of his coat, his warmth seeped into her. But he stopped just short of taking her mouth.
Stopped and stared, as if challenging her to deny him.
But the fight was gone from her. She was once again a weak-willed woman who longed for a man’s touch.
Not just any man’s, she acknowledged silently. Only this one’s.
“For a woman who has demonstrated remarkable prowess at speaking her mind, you have gone suddenly quiet,” he observed, a mocking edge to his words.
He knew how greatly affected she was, the scoundrel. Knew it and was savoring her vulnerability. Enjoying it, quite clearly.
The realization had her finding her tongue at last.
“I had no intention of repeating what happened last night, if that is what you are inferring,” she informed him as coldly as she could muster.
To demonstrate the veracity of her words, she shifted again, attempting to remove herself from his person. The action proved her second great mistake of the evening, the first having been asking him to stay. Because her movements only served to nestle his rigid cock more firmly against her. So firmly that if there hadn’t been any garments separating them, he might easily have entered her. And much to her shame, he would have found her body welcoming and wet. Starving for his claiming.
He made a low sound of need, and it made an embarrassing surge of desire sluice through her.
“You have a damned odd way of avoiding an encore, Marchioness.”
She swallowed hard. “You are a—”
His mouth took hers, silencing the rest of what she had been about to say. It was not the kiss of a tentative suitor but the kiss of a passionate lover. It was hard and demanding, carnal and wicked. His teeth raked along her bottom lip, and she opened for him, their tongues tangling together with eager abandon.
She was lost. Awash in sensation, drowning in him. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers tangling in the silken strands at his nape, and she kissed him with all the abandon she’d once embraced, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Kissed him and felt an answering hunger within herself. The need to devour him, to be devoured in turn.
She had forgotten what it was like to kiss. How thoroughly rousing it was to lose herself to the sensation of a knowing mouth on hers, the taste of a man on her lips and tongue. Had forgotten what it felt like to ache, to need, to have someone stoke the flames of her desire ever higher until she was willing to be burned.
But she remembered now.
Heaven help her, she remembered.
She kissed him with every bit of passion she had kept ruthlessly suppressed. Kissed him until she was breathless. And not even then did she stop. She kissed him until there was wetness and salt on her lips and tongue, the lash of hot tears trailing down her cheeks. It shocked her to realize she had been weeping.
He jerked his head back, as if just making the discovery himself, his expression harsh. “Tears?”
She released her hold on him to dash at the wetness on her cheeks, struggling to explain, to understand herself. For they weren’t tears of shame over her reaction to Beast. Rather, they were tears of relief.
“I had forgotten what this felt like,” she told him.
