He did not pounce or drag or manhandle.He kissed her until her knees weakened and her hands slid from his shoulders to his chest to keep herself upright; he kissed her until the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the scent of him, the delicious friction of his body against hers.
At some point, her fingers found the knot of his cravat.It was already loosening, but she still tugged at it, desperate for more skin.The knot gave under her fingers; the linen slithered away.She slipped her hand beneath, palm flattening against his throat.
He sucked in a breath.
“Bea,” he rasped.“If you touch me like that, I’m going to forget every single noble impulse I’ve ever had.”
“You’re suggesting you’ve had any,” she whispered.
His laugh was strangled.“Fair point.”
She dragged her hand down over the hard curve of his collarbone, the smooth line of his chest under his shirt.He felt like heat and strength and recklessness.
His own hands found her waist, fingers splaying, thumbs sweeping over the curve of her stays.He pressed closer, guiding her away from the wall, across the room with unsteady steps.She didn’t know where they were going until the back of her calves hit something padded.
The settee.
He broke the kiss long enough to look into her eyes.
“Last chance,” he said roughly.“To tell me to stop.”
Her lungs dragged in air.Her heart hammered.Her body ached.
“Nicholas,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Please,” she said.
He made a sound that was half curse, half prayer, and lowered her onto the settee.
The room blurred.
His mouth was on hers again, then on her throat, then lower, the edge of her bodice suddenly far too high and far too tight.His hands explored the nipped-in line of her waist, the flare of her hips.She felt him everywhere, the heat of him imprinting her through every layer of fabric.
She tried again, once, to remember the speech she’d rehearsed.I’m B.Adroit, and I?—
But his palm slid, bold and sure, over the top of her thigh, fingers curving around to the back of her leg, catching up a handful of muslin.The whisper of her skirts rising swallowed the thought whole.
“Nicholas,” she gasped, hips jerking.
“Come upstairs,” he whispered against her throat.
Her eyes flew open.“Upstairs?”
“Yes.”His gaze burned into hers.“Because if I keep you in this drawing room, I’m going to do something unforgivable on this very respectable furniture.”
Her heart thudded.“Upstairs is your bedchamber.”
“Quite astute,” he said.
“My reputation?—”
“Already in tatters the moment you stepped into my house alone,” he said quietly.“I am not pretending coming to my bedchamber will make it worse.”
She sucked in her breath, trembling—not only with want, but with the sharp edge of why she’d come here in the first place.
To tell him.To be honest, as she’d promised herself she would be.
