“You have a talent for melting frost.”
The muscles of his chest tensed, hard beneath the lingering sweep of her fingers as they climbed to cradle his jaw. Heat tightened inside him, a deep, insistent pull that silenced reason. Their mouths met again, hunger rising from a place dark and long denied.
His restraint slipped the moment her breath mingled with his. When she rose on her toes to meet him fully, his control scattered like ash on the wind.
He traced the line from her cheekbone to the tender curve of her nape, fingers sinking into her hair. Silken strands caught around his knuckles as he drew her closer, coaxing her lips apart. She sighed into him, and that soft, helpless sound undid him more completely than desire ever could.
The lesson, the logic, the distance—none of it mattered. Only the heat of her, the taste of her, the sweetness that mocked his vow of indifference.
When she pulled away, breathless, he fought the sudden instinct to drag her back, to growlyou’re mine, and drink from her like a man parched.
She touched her lips with trembling fingers. “If every kissimproves on the last, I can see why people become addicted to kissing.”
He tried not to stare, but watching her rediscover her own mouth was its own form of torment. Another kiss and he’d be prowling the corridors at night, desperate for another dose.
“You prefer being an active participant?” His mind leapt to the promise he’d made, to let her sample him hot from the pan and hoped she liked her food sizzling.
“Undoubtedly. It makes me wonder if it’s possible to have a marriage built on friendship and longing, while avoiding the other complications.”
She didn’t wait for his warning that passion was fickle and would wane, that when intimacy died, there was little left to salvage.
“Though you’ll find that a troublesome idea, I’m sure.”
Troublesome, and the most inviting prospect he’d ever encountered.
She smoothed her hands over her skirts, as if she’d dressed in a hurry after a fireside romp.
He stood rooted to the spot, a monument to contradiction. Bloody hell. He wanted to make love to his wife. In truth, he’d wanted to bed her the moment he’d placed that ring on her finger.
Perhaps she sensed his internal struggle. “There’s no need to escort me upstairs. I can find my way. Doubtless, you consider these naive experiments tedious.”
Logical Rothley would have seized the boon and quickly agreed, eager to put distance between them. The man before her had lost his wits somewhere between the chapel and the chancery.
“A husband should always honour his promises.” But wanting to leave his wife mindless with passion had little todo with honour and everything to do with pride. “And in the name of education, it’s better you understand the risks of indulging your impulses, so we may avoid them in future.”
She pondered his reply. “I suppose desire is like analysing a poem. A meticulous study of our body’s own lines and verses.”
Oh, he would be meticulous. He pictured himself nestled between her thighs, his tongue paying homage, utterly absorbed in the taste of her arousal.
He cleared his throat. “Quite.”
“Thenhot from the panimplies urgency, surprise even.”
Good Lord. He was fast discovering there were crueller forms of temptation than touch. She wielded curiosity like a blade, and he was bleeding from every careful word.
“Yes, and requires a different skill set entirely.”
“But I’m a novice.”
Hardly. She was passion disguised in muted grey. That clever mouth aroused him as surely as any kiss, and her curious mind promised she would be a spirited lover.
“Passion is the art of ignoring thought and yielding to feeling.” He gestured towards the door. He needed to act before Mrs Boswell appeared to return his misplaced sanity. “Hence, I’ll need two things from you as we walk to your room.”
She led him into the corridor. “You’d rather I talked less?”
“No. I need your permission to touch you, to touch you until you tell me to stop.” He just prayed she said the word with conviction.
“You have it. What else?”
