Nevertheless he groaned. The sound made her feel, if possible, even more wanton.
And then he caught her wrist.
“Not here. Anyone might see.”
“See what?” she teased. From a distance, they could hardly look like much, just a couple moving slowly down a shaded path.
He shook his head. “I won’t let you be talked about.”
“But you want me,” she said, her mind fogged with the heat between them, needing to keep touching him, “Tell me how much you want me.”
His fingers squeezed her wrist and he pulled her towards him, until his mouth was at her ear. “More than anything.”
“Then show me.”
He descended from the curricle, extending a hand towards her. She took it, locking eyes with him, and finding again that intense desire there.
When she was on the ground, he swept her into the tree line.
“This way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Montaigne was surehis heart had never pounded so hard. If he wasn’t so gone with lust and nerves, he would have feared an apoplexy. But if he died in pursuit of Olivia Watson, it would be worth it.
Unfortunately, as it so happened, he had no idea what he was doing. It would shock high-society London and the readers of the scandal sheets to no end, but he had never had a liaison in Hyde Park. He had no idea where to take a woman who was baiting you into sexual ecstasy—and whose reputation you wanted to keep intact.
Fortunately, it did not take Don Juan to know that he should pull her beyond the tree line. Her hand clasped in his made his head swim. He had wanted her so badly and for so long that he could hardly see straight.
They stumbled past a thicket of trees and into a small clearing. More trees promised beyond. He stood there, stunned with desire, immobilized with uncertainty about how to proceed.
When he had retrieved Olivia from Bloomsbury this morning, he had not imagined any of this. He had thought he had weeks, months, perhaps of winning back her trust—and yet she didn’t seem to have any of the same notions.
Not that he felt that he did know what her notions were. Was he to ravish her in this clearing? The prospect overwhelmed him.
“Augustus.”
He realized, suddenly, that he had had his back to her. He turned and looked at her.
She was so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. He would have wanted to close his eyes, but the only thing more unbearable than continuing to look at her was stopping. She once more appeared lit from within. The pure honey of her eyes beckoned him towards her. The skin at the throat of her dress seemed to glimmer, silken and tempting. The few wisps that had escaped her coiffure skimmed her freckled cheekbones. He felt breathless.
“Augustus. Are you alright?”
He kissed her.
And it was so much at once. She was in his arms, her soft curves pressing into him, causing his senses to riot. At the same time, her lips opened for him, letting him taste her, admitting him to the sweet flavor there and allowing him to sup from it. He heard his own groan, unable to control his reaction, not even attempting it. She must feel, he thought, wildly, how hard he was against her. He was a beast, he knew it, but he couldn’t help it.
He kept kissing her. Of course he did. He found, in fact, that he couldn’t stop. As he did, he couldn’t believe, that after so many years of yearning, she was solid in his arms. That she was real.
He wanted to stay here, kissing her in this little clearing, forever. Some part of him did not even want their encounter to progress, for her to address the insistent hardness in his breeches, that was willing him towards a conclusion. He wanted no conclusions. No endings. Just this moment. Olivia. Forever.
But her hands had begun to roam. Over his chest, which made his legs, for a moment, buckle—and then down towards his groin, running her hand once more over his cock and causing him to shudder. He couldn’t resistmore, even as part of him desperately wanted to.
Montaigne broke the kiss and pulled her towards a nearby tree, one that looked substantial enough for what he wanted to enact. He gently pushed her against it, kissing her again, and she sighed, her legs bracketing his own on either side. His cock pressed into her belly and he knew, if they stayed like this for much longer, he would come just from her kiss and the friction.
But he wantedthis, here, to be for her.
After all, he had been the one who had hurt her. Who had made her feel less than himself. Disappointed her. Made her flee. He needed to show her the extent of his regrets—to return them to the place where they had left off.
