Reluctantly, I pulled away long enough for my husband to rip it over my head before throwing it somewhere—hopefully not into the hearth.
It seemed I was not the only one with plans to stroke and grab and,oh God, kiss. My fingers fell back to the strong, determined shoulders I loved, sliding along his back to feel the tendons stretch and tense, even as his lips on my breast set about driving thought from my head.
“Kit, I had plans…”
“I have better ones.” The grumble of his words against my nipple set gooseflesh alight along my belly. His hand traced a teasing path up the inside of my thigh, hinting at something more.
“But…” I protested.
Wordlessly, he began to collapse, pulling me with him to the wooden floor. I landed across his still-clothed lap, his lips finally breaking with my breasts to find my mouth.
“Davina, I promise if you have the energy to reach your frosting when I’m finished with you, you may do what you wish with it.”
Slowly, purposefully, he leaned back against the hardwood. One hand came up to cradle his neck while he cocked a deliberate brow. Comprehension settled and my thoughts raced ahead. He was right, his plan was better than mine. And if my legs behaved well enough afterward to stand and walk to the cold cellar for the frosting, it would be the first time.
Still, I couldn’t allow him to think he’d won—not without the requisite worship of my magnificence.
“Comfortable?” I asked, infusing my tone with a bit of the haughty duke’s daughter.
“Very.”
I swung one leg to straddle my husband, unable to resist a slight rock against the hardness growing in his breeches. “Good, because you’ve made a great many promises just now. It could take some time for you to deliver on them.”
He grunted when I brushed against his fabric-covered cock before coughing out, “I would never dare to rush a lady.”
Warm hands settled on my thighs. “Indeed,” I insisted, shifting once again, earning a squeeze from Kit.
With a sigh, he released one of my legs to press himself up to sitting, his lips catching mine. “Darling, you’re overthinking this,” he whispered, his lips brushing against mine.
“What?”
“I can see you thinking away. You’re supposed to be riding my face until consciousness abandons your body, not fretting. What is it?” Gently, he brushed my hair away from my neck, leaving room for searing kisses along the line of my throat.
“I don’t...” Kit’s tongue found my nipple before my head could supply the end of that sentence.
“You don’t what?” he pressed.
“What?” I asked on a groan.
“That’s better. Too much planning and negotiating, not enough kissing,” he murmured along the underside of my breast, his tongue tracing the lines of my rib cage. My hand tangled in his hair instinctively, pressing him closer.
“Kit!” I cried when he nipped gently at the curve of my breast before soothing it with his tongue.
“I love your sweet, mischievous mind,” he mused, shifting to the other breast. My heart fluttered in response, back arching toward his mouth wantonly. “But sometimes it gets away from us both.”
Kit began to lower himself down, one vertebra at a time as I chased the feel of his lips mindlessly.
“Do you remember the first time we did this? So worried you’d suffocate me—as if I could conceive of a better death. You still get a little nervous?”
“There’s nothing to grab onto here,” I said, a hint of defensiveness slipping in.
“My head,” he teased, settling back with his palm between his dark curls and the floor.
“Kit,” I whined, even as the hand on my thigh dragged me up his torso.
“Fine.” His lips quirked up in a quick smile. “Easily solved.” His free hand abandoned my flesh. Stretching, he reached for the leg of a dining chair above his head. The muscles of his abdomen tensed intriguingly with the effort beneath my bare core. “Only so you don’t fall so far when you swoon.” He dragged it to my side—something to balance against.
“I’m not going to swoon.”
