She shifted as though to roll from him, and a mad thought dashed across Keaton's mind.
“It might be best not to move until we know our situation. We might be in a precarious position.”
Very precarious! I am in very great danger. I must not let my resolve waver.
Her face was so close to his. He could feel the warmth of her cheek. Feel her breath.
“Speak,” he whispered.
“Why?” she replied.
“So that I might judge where your lips are.”
It was enough. He lifted his face to hers and his lips found Georgia's. He felt a sigh slip from her throat, felt her body sink against his after a moment's tension. His resolve had been battered like a broken dam before a flood. He no longer caredto restrain himself—couldn’t,wouldn’t. His hands cradled her head as he kissed her deeper, hungrier, claiming her mouth with a need he could no longer disguise. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when they parted for him—soft, wet, eager—he groaned into her mouth.
His fingers sank into her hair, relishing the feel of the silky locks, imagining the lustre that must be upon them. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and he could feel the tight peaks through the layers between them, taunting him. That sensation became a secondary focus for his senses. First, his lips, hot against Georgia's, tasting her tongue and her mouth, allowing her to taste his. Below, his cock pressed achingly against her thighs and her vulnerable femininity.
Keaton had never felt such envy for those civilizations of the tropics who wore little. He was aware of so many layers separating his body from hers. Her dress, corset, chemise, whatever society and fashion deemed it necessary for women to wear. Meanwhile, his breeches were a prison. Every tiny shift of her hips drove him mad, and had her whimpering her pleasure.
“Your Grace!” came the voice of the driver from the outside, tight with pain, “Your Grace, are you injured in there?”
Georgia's head rose from Keaton's, and he snarled in frustration. She giggled.
“I think we were saved by providence,” she whispered.
“By the devil,” he murmured. “Yes! We are unhurt!”
“I think this door is wedged against the ground,” Georgia said, shifting from her position atop him. Her thigh slid over his, and she paused—just long enough to feel the hard length beneath her. Her breath caught, and Keaton felt a flush creep up his neck. She moved quickly after that.
Perhaps itwasprovidence. It prevented us from making what would have been a grave mistake. Prevented me from becoming vulnerable to an attachment.
Carefully, he began adjusting his position until he could stand on the tilted door of the carriage. It took a few minutes for strong hands to help him climb out of the carriage after Georgia.
“What happened?” he snapped, not knowing where his man was and therefore where to look.
“A wheel collapsed on a discarded piece of metal. It happened just on the bend in the road and the axle snapped, leavin’ us on our side, Your Grace,” came the voice of his driver from the right.
“You have a very nasty bump on your head. What is your name?” Georgia asked.
“His name does not matter,” Keaton said irritably.
He was alone with only voices to tell him who stood where. It left him feeling exposed. He felt a soft hand slip into his, and Georgia's perfume wafted closer.
“Some men came to help, they are righting the carriage, and they helped get us out,” she said, then whispered, “to your left, two of the clock where I am standing at twelve.”
Keaton could not deny her intelligence or empathy. She seemed to know precisely what would assuage him. He turned in the direction she had given him.
“My thanks to you. We are most grateful. The carriage is wrecked, I assume?”
“It is, Your Grace,” the driver confirmed.
“The horses?”
“Both well, Your Grace, a bit shaken but unharmed.”
“Unhitch them. You take one and we will take the other,” Keaton ordered.
It took a few minutes to get the horses unhitched from the carriage. Keaton vaulted into the saddle using one of the carriage wheels to boost himself.
