Rain beat down upon his head, and a pair of small, gloved fists beat upon his shoulders and chest.
These matters troubled him not a whit. He was Dain, Lord Beelzebub himself.
He feared neither Nature’s wrath nor that of civilized society. He most certainly was not troubled by Miss Trent’s indignation.
Sweet, was he? He was a gross, disgusting pig of a debauchee, and if she thought she’d get off with merely one repellent peck of his polluted lips, she had another think coming.
There was nothing sweet or chivalrous about his kiss. It was a hard, brazen, take-no-prisoners assault that drove her head back.
For one terrifying moment, he wondered if he’d broken her neck.
But she couldn’t be dead, because she was still flailing at him and squirming. He wrapped one arm tightly about her waist and brought the other hand up to hold her head firmly in place.
Instantly she stopped squirming and flailing. And in that instant her tightly compressed lips yielded to his assault with a suddenness that made him stagger backward, into the lamppost.
Her arms lashed about his neck in a stranglehold.
Madonna in cielo.
Sweet mother of Jesus, the demented female waskissing him back.
Her mouth pressed eagerly against his, and that mouth was warm and soft and fresh as spring rain. She smelled of soap—chamomile soap—and wet wool and Woman.
His legs wobbled.
He leaned back against the lamppost and his crushing grasp loosened because his muscles were turning to rubber. Yet she clung to him, her slim, sweetly curved body sliding slowly down his length until her toes touched the pavement. And still she didn’t let go of his neck. Still she didn’t pull her mouth away from his. Her kiss was as sweet and innocently ardent as his had been bold and lustily demanding.
He melted under that maidenly ardor as though it were rain and he a pillar of salt.
In all the years since his father had packed him off to Eton, no woman had ever done anything to or for him until he’d put money in her hand. Or—as in the case of the one respectable female he’d been so misguided as to pursue nearly eight years ago—unless he signed papers putting his body, soul, and fortune into said hands.
Miss Jessica Trent was holding on to him as though her life depended upon it and kissing him as though the world would come to an end if she stopped, and there was no “unless” or “until” about it.
Bewildered and heated at once, he moved his big hands unsteadily over her back and shaped his trembling fingers to her deliciously dainty waist. He had never before held anything like her—so sweetly slim and supple and curved to delicate perfection. His chest tightened and ached and he wanted to weep.
Sognavo di te.
I’ve dreamed of you.
Ti ho voluta tra le mie braccia dal primo momento che ho vista.
I’ve wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.
He stood, helpless in the driving rain, unable to rule his needy mouth, his restless hands, while, within, his heart beat out the mortifying truth.
Ho bisogno di te.
I need you.
As though that last were an outrage so monstrous that even the generally negligent Almighty could not let it pass, a blast of light rent the darkness, followed immediately by a violent crash that shook the pavement.
She jerked away and stumbled back, her hand clapped to her mouth.
“Jess,” he said, reaching out to bring her back. “Cara, I—”
“No. Oh, God.” She shoved her wet hair out of her face. “Damn you, Dain.” Then she turned and fled.
Jessica Trent was a young woman who faced facts, and as she mounted, dripping, the stairs to her brother’sappartement, she faced them.
