He said the last words just as they reached Mr. Fitzgilbert. Gray was reluctant to release her, but he somehow found the ability. He gave her a bow.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wilde. Mr. Fitzgilbert.”
She nodded in acknowledgment of his farewell, but it was a jerky action. Her voice was small as she squeaked out, “Good evening, Mr. Danford.”
He strode away, content with the knowledge that he’d laid the groundwork for moving forward with her. But the energy that coursed through his body, making him smile, had nothing to do with furthering his quest to break Celia and Lucien’s engagement.
It had everything to do with the idea that he could steal yet another moment with Rosalinde Wilde.
Rosalinde tightened her robe around herself and stepped into the quiet of the library. The candle in her hand trembled as she moved to the long line of shelves and began to peruse their contents. She needed something tedious to help her in her quest for sleep. She needed something engaging enough to make her forget why slumber eluded her.
She pressed her forehead to the line of books before her with a long, shaky sigh. For the past few hours, she had been tormented by memories of her dance with Gray. Her mind and her rebelling body had relived every seductive word that left his lips.
He wanted her. He wanted to have her again.
And the thought both aroused her beyond measure and terrified her to the point of sleeplessness. The storm and the magical, fated quality of that unforgettable night in the inn had made surrendering to a stranger seem somehow acceptable.
But what Gray suggested now was something far different. Far more dangerous. They knew each other. They were in a house full of watchful eyes. And perhaps worst of all, they were enemies. Any man who would work to hurt her sisterhadto be Rosalinde’s enemy.
And yet she wanted his wicked hands on her, his hot tongue on hers, his big body stretching her as she trembled beneath him.
There was a soft click behind her, and Rosalinde spun around to find Gray standing at the now-closed door. He had removed his formal jacket and cravat, leaving him in a crisp shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and unbuttoned to the collarbone. He held her gaze evenly, but said nothing as her candle began to shake in her hand.
And then he moved on her. He reached her in three long strides, slipping the candle from her fingers, setting it aside on a nearby table. He lowered his mouth to hers and she melted against him, arguments gone, reason departed, nothing left in her but pulsing need for this man.
His tongue probed her mouth, tasting her like she was something to savor, and she arched against him with a mewling cry that sounded so loud in the quiet room.
His arms tightened around her waist, lifting her against him, letting her feel the hard ridge of his erection through his trousers. She rubbed it with her hips, out of control as emotion took her, making her forget everything but him.
She felt his hands dragging down her back and gasped as he cupped her backside, kneading the sensitive flesh there as he rhythmically ground against her. She could hardly breathe as sensation gripped her, overcame her, and she cried out in his mouth.
He yanked his lips from hers, his dark eyes wild as he pushed her toward a settee near the fire. They collapsed backward on it, his heavy body pinning hers to the cushions.
She lifted her pelvis to his, moaning softly as she grabbed for his shirt. She unhooked the buttons with shaky hands and pushed at the fabric, nearly tearing it as she parted it and revealed his chiseled chest.
He shrugged out of the garment and then went back to kissing her. Heated, claiming kisses that began on her lips, but then he dragged his mouth to her throat, to the edge of her robe. His hand found the knot and he made swift work to open it. He licked lower, all the way to the scooped neckline of the nightgown beneath.
She felt like she was on fire and he was the one making her burn. But she also knew he was the only one who could grant her relief. And she needed that. Now.
He nudged a knee between her legs and she opened without argument, sighing as he shoved her nightgown up past her hips and then settled in the cradle of her thighs.
He was still dressed, but the hardness of his cock bumped her entrance as he tugged the neck of her night rail down and revealed one breast. He sucked her hard nipple between his lips and swirled his tongue around and around the peak until she was writing beneath him.
She managed to wedge a hand between them and found the flap of his trousers. With so little room, unfastening it was a challenge, but she managed, and he hissed out a sound of pleasure as she tugged the fabric away and wrapped her hand around his erection.
He pulled from kissing her and stared down at her. Their gazes locked and suddenly there was nothing else in the world. She could hardly breathe as she guided him to her entrance.
“Rosalinde,” he whispered.
She ignored him and lifted her hips, pressing him inside of her one glorious inch. He took over after that, sliding all the way inside in one long, heavy stroke.
They moaned together as he fully seated himself. Though it had only been a matter of days, Rosalinde felt she had been deprived of his touch for weeks, months. She was shaking as he began to move, rotating his hips as he took her one short stroke at a time.
She braced against him on every thrust, digging her fingers into his bare back as pleasure swirled between her legs, rising and lifting until she jolted with an orgasm. He grunted at the feel of her body flexing around him. His thrusts increased as her pleasure crested, and he slammed against her just a few more times before he withdrew and spent between their sweaty bodies.
He collapsed on top of her, his lips against her neck, his arms around her back, his sharp, panting breaths slowing to meet her own as they lay together in the afterglow of intense passion.
Finally she opened her eyes and stared up at the crisscrossed pattern of the exposed wood beams on the ceiling high above. The reality of what she’d done hit her and she buried her face into his shoulder with a shuddering sigh of both pleasure and self-recrimination.
