She scoffed, her eyes searching his. “There’s nothing special about my laugh.”
“Rare things are always precious.”
“I laugh,” she insisted. “You make it impossible not to.” As she said the words, her brows drew together.
“No, don’t frown.” He released her wrist and brought his thumb to the faint line the expression produced. “Not today. Not now.”
“Oliver—”
He slid his hand to her jaw, waiting for the moment she pushed him aside. He was playing with fire, he knew, but he couldn’t help herself. If she told him to stop, he would, but until then—so long as she gave him permission . . .
His thumb traced a path to her lips, and her breath shuddered.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me to go inside and never approach you like this again, and Iwill, but damn it, Emily, I want to kiss you.”
“We can’t,” she whispered.
His thumb traced the line of her bottom lip again. “Is that a no?”
She blinked, melted snow gathering on her eyelashes. Her fingers closed around his shirt, but instead of pushing him back,she merely held on, her knuckles turning white. He waited, giving her time to tell him to stop.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
He leaned in, pressing his mouth to her temple. Her fingers traced up to the bare skin of his neck. He shivered.
“I would like—very much like—to kiss you,” he said, speaking the words against her skin. “Will you allow me that honour?”
She tilted her chin up to him in invitation. But he didn’t dare move until she whispered, the words barely audible, “What are you waiting for?”
He almost groaned with relief as he took her mouth with his.
This was not his first time kissing a lady. London and Oxford had been rife with ladies eager to be kissed, and he had practiced his art on their willingness. Before, it had been perfectly pleasant. Enjoyable. A precursor to other acts that he enjoyed still more.
This was his first time being annihilated by a kiss.
Perhaps it was the degree to which he had wanted her before they reached this moment. He could not recall this level of need before—he had needed to feel the way her lips moulded against his, the way her mouth opened to accommodate him. The wet heat of her tongue against his.
By God, he had dreamt of this, in that vague, unsubstantiated way a man fantasised about a woman he could never have—and none of his imaginings came even close to the reality. His attraction to her had come on so suddenly, he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had gone from thinking her plain to thinking her beautiful, in her own way.
He wanted to see every inch of her—but not in a merely carnal way. She kept secrets behind those big grey eyes, and he wanted to uncover them all. He wanted to know all of her, every piece that she did not give up so readily.
There was no reason to his desire.
All he knew was he burned for her. Soft lips, warm skin, a tongue that teased at his, mimicking acts he had no doubt she knew intimately. He cupped the back of her neck, desperate to drink more of her in. Her hands gripped his coat more firmly, tugging him closer.
Hearing her laugh had been the thing to undo him. Not practiced seduction—no, it had been the sound of her joy. A woman who laughed not because she ought, but because she couldn’t help herself.
“Emily,” he murmured against her mouth before sinking into another drugging kiss. Without meaning to, he ground against her, his hips pinning hers to the wall of the house. The accompanying rush of desire, of pleasure half unrealised, left him dizzy.
He was but a man, and there was only so much blood his brain could stand to lose until thinking became an impossibility.
She froze under him.
He had thought nothing could stop him, but that was enough; he shoved back, panting. They stared at one another. Her lips were red, her eyes luminous. Tendrils of wet hair plastered to the side of her face.
She was everything that was lovely.
“Isabella,” she said. One word, and it was as though someone had tossed a bucket of cold water over his head, drenching him. Desire faded, replaced by an understanding that made him grit his teeth.
