And besides, it frustrated her to no end how her body reacted to him. She was supposed to hate him for this, not fall deeper into his trap.
“Whatever it is ye are doin’, I daenae like it,” Lydia insisted. “Ye are shuttin’ me out. Ye tell me nothin’. All ye do is tell me what to do and where to be, and ye give me nay freedom. It’s like I’m yer prisoner. I cannae do anythin’; I cannae go anywhere without havin’ eyes on me at all times.”
“It’s for yer own safety,” Kieran said, stone-faced and cold. “I’ve told ye this. I’ve explained it more times than I can count, and ye still daenae listen.”
“Neither do ye,” said Lydia, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Why should I be the only one listenin’? Why should I be the only one doin’ what ye want? Why do ye never do what I want?”
Silently, Kieran leaned even closer—so close that their noses were almost touching, and Lydia suddenly had the urge to recoil.
But she didn’t; she stood her ground, looking up at him with all the indignation she could muster.
“Ye daenae want to make demands of me,” he warned. “Makin’ demands of me is dangerous.”
“Och aye?” Lydia asked, her hands on her hips. “And what, precisely, will ye do to me? Harm me? We both ken ye wouldnae do that. So, what is it that I should fear from ye, hmm?”
As she spoke, Kieran’s eyes took on a dark expression that almost made her fear what was to come—though it wasn’t a fear of him hurting her. He was not angry, she realized, at least not exactly. Irritated by her stubborn behavior, sure, but there was something else in his gaze—something that she didn’t dare name.
“Nay,” he said. “Ye shouldnae fear that I’ll hurt ye. But ye should fear I’ll have me way with ye.”
Lydia froze like a deer under a hunter’s gaze. She swallowed in a dry throat and took a deep breath, but the act gave her no relief. She had no doubt that Kieran would make good on his threat—or promise—but the worst of it all was that she wanted it desperately.
She wanted to provoke him. She wanted to see how far she could push before he finally gave in and claimed her, but at the same time, she feared the consequences of it. And so, she was torn between desire and terror, between need and the knowledge that giving in to it would only make things more complicated between them.
Before she could say another thing, though, or even so much as try to pull back and put some space between them, his hands were on her—one on her waist and the other around the back of her neck—pulling her into a heated kiss.
And Lydia was too far gone to protest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She tastes like honey.
Kieran couldn’t get enough of her. That first kiss was more than he could have ever imagined—more intoxicating, more overwhelming, more monumental than any kiss he had ever had before. He couldn’t remember a time when his need was all-consuming like this, demanding that he give in to his desires.
He could not stop it. It was as if a wave was dragging him along deeper and deeper into the sea with no hopes of escape when he finally kissed her. He had held back for so long that now that the dams were broken, and he didn’t think he could ever build them back up.
And when Lydia kissed him back, giving in to him, he couldn’t help the growl that tore itself from his lips.
The painting forgotten, Kieran let his hands drag over the length of Lydia’s body, caressing the dip of her waist, the curve of herhips, eager to touch her everywhere he could. The scent of her, lavender and rose and something sweet underneath that which seemed to belong just to her, drove him mad with desire, and so did the tentative touch she gave him when she laid her hand on his chest.
The touch was hesitant, uncertain, as if she struggled with what she wanted to do and what she thought she should do. And yet, it was more endearing than any touch from an experienced lover, and Kieran couldn’t help but lean into it as he deepened the kiss, licking past the seam of her lips into her mouth.
The act seemed to catch Lydia by surprise. She gasped against him, her lips parting as she let him explore her, her body melting against his own in his arms. With a grunt, he pulled her even closer until their bodies were flush against each other, and he could feel the contours of her body on him.
When he pulled back, he only did so enough to look at her, his hand trailing from the back of her neck down her chest, tracing the swell of her breast. Lydia gasped, her eyes wide as she watched the path his hand took, but she didn’t stop him; he could tell she didn’t want him to.
Silently, he pulled her toward a plush couch that he had pushed to the side of the room to make space for his easel, laying her over the deep red velvet. Lydia’s breath came in short, quick huffs, her breasts threatening to spill out of her petticoat with each one, and Kieran would be lying if he said he wasn’t mesmerized by the sight, his trews growing uncomfortable the more he watched.
“I want ye,” he told her, his voice barely a whisper. “And I shall have ye. I shall show ye precisely why ye mustnae make demands.”
Lydia looked up at him with wide eyes, her rosy lips slightly parted and glistening. She said nothing—only drew in a sharp breath, her gaze tracking every movement Kieran made.
And when he cupped himself through his trews in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure, her gaze darkened, her tongue darting past her lips to lick them.
Does she even ken what she’s doin’to me?
Kieran doubted she did. None of her responses were manufactured, none of them seemed on purpose. But it was as if she was made to tempt him, as if she was sin incarnate, and he wanted nothing more than to plunge himself inside her, to take her as a man takes his wife.
He had denied himself too long—and he would continue to deny himself because he didn’t think Lydia was ready for this yet. As much as he wanted her, as much as he craved her body, he wanted her to be the one to surrender to him, willingly, desperately, to reach the point of wanting it so much that she didn’t care about pride, and she didn’t care about begging.
