“Wine red,” she said. “With narrow black ribbons threaded through the neckline. Here.” She traced a plungingUover her bosom. “And there’s the loveliest openwork over my…well,here.” She drew her finger over the curve of her breast a bare inch above the nipple. “And openwork on the right side of the skirt. From here”—she pointed to her hip—“down to the hem. And I bought—”
“Jess.” Her name was a strangled whisper.
“—slippers to match,” she continued. “Black mules with—”
“Jess.” In one furious flurry of motion, he threw down the reins and hauled her into his lap.
The movement startled the horses, who tossed their heads and snorted and commenced an agitated dance. “Stop it!” Dain said sharply. They stilled.
His powerful right arm tightened round Jessica’s waist and he pulled her close.
It was like sitting in the throbbing heat of a furnace: Brick-hard and hot, his body pulsed with tension. He slid his hand down over her hip and clasped her thigh.
She looked up. He was scowling malevolently at his big, gloved hand. “You,” he growled. “Plague take you.”
She tilted her head back. “I’ll return it, if you wish. The nightgown.”
His furious black gaze moved up, to her mouth. His breathing was harsh. “No, you won’t,” he said.
Then his mouth, hard and hungry, fell upon hers, dragging over her lips as though to punish her.
But what Jessica tasted was victory. She felt it in the heat he couldn’t disguise, and in the pulsing tension of his frame, and she heard it clear as any declaration when his tongue pushed impatiently for entry.
He wanted her. Still.
Maybe he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it, any more than she could help wanting him.
And for this moment, she needn’t pretend otherwise. She squirmed up to wrap her arms round his neck, and held tightly while he ravaged her mouth. And while she ravaged his.
They might have been two furious armies, and the kiss a life-or-death battle. They both wanted the same: conquest, possession. He gave no quarter. She wanted none. She couldn’t get enough of the hot sin of his mouth, the scorching pressure of his hand, dragging over her hip, brazenly claiming her breast.
She claimed, too, her hands raking over his massive shoulders and down, digging her fingers into the powerful sinews of his arms.Mine, she thought, as the muscles bunched and flexed under her touch.
Andmine, she vowed, as she splayed her hands over his broad, hard chest. She would have him and keep him if it killed her. A monster he may be, but he washermonster. She would not share his stormy kisses with anyone else. She would not share his big, splendid body with anyone else.
She squirmed closer. He tensed and, groaning deep in his throat, moved his hand down and clasped her bottom, pulling her closer still. Even through the leather driving gloves and several layers of fabric, his bold grasp sent sizzling ripples of sensation over her skin.
She wanted his touch upon her naked flesh: big, bare, dark hands moving over her, everywhere. Rough or gentle, she didn’t care. As long as he wanted her. As long as he kissed her and touched her like this…as though he were starving, as she was, as though he couldn’t get enough of her, as she couldn’t of him.
He dragged his mouth from hers and, muttering what sounded like Italian curses, took his warm hand off her buttock.
“Let go of me,” he said thickly.
Swallowing a cry of frustration, she brought her hands down, folded them upon her lap, and stared at a tree opposite.
Dain gazed at her in furious despair.
He should have known better than to come within a mile of her. They’d be wed in thirteen days, and he would have the wedding night and as many nights thereafter as he needed to slake his lust and be done with it. He had told himself it didn’t matter how much she haunted and plagued him meanwhile. He had endured worse, for smaller reward, and he could surely endure a few weeks of frustration.
He had to endure it, because he had a far too vivid image of the alternative: the Marquess of Dain hovering about and panting over his bride-to-be like a starving mongrel at a butcher’s cart. He would be fretting and yapping at her doorstep by day and howling at her window by night. He would be trotting after her to dressmakers and milliners and cobblers and haberdashers, and snarling and growling about her at parties.
He was used to getting what he wanted the instant he wanted it, and to wisely ignoring or rejecting what he couldn’t get that instant. He had found he could no more disregard her than a famished hound could disregard a slab of meat.
He should have realized that the day he met her, when he’d lingered in Champtois’ shop, unable to take his eyes off her. He should at least have discerned the problem the day he’d gone to pieces just taking off her damned glove.
In any case, there was no escaping the truth now, when he’d given himself—and her—so mortifyingly eloquent a display. All she had to do was describe a bit of lingerie, and he lost his mind and tried to devour her.
“Do you want me to get off your lap?” she asked politely, still gazing straight ahead.
