He shifted in his seat, his legs wide, and her heart beat faster. If she was to sit forward on the edge of her seat, those long legs would envelop her. She’d be surrounded by taught, lean muscle. Heat pooled between her thighs as it had from the moment he’d walked through the doors, hair tousled, cravat hastily tied, eyes wild.
Now that heat pulsated, her body calling for him. She swallowed hard and wondered if he could sense how she was feeling. He seemed to know everything else about her. Her desire was so strong, she couldn’t imagine how it could not be written across her face, just like it was written across his.
“I knew you’d come for me.” Her voice was barely a whisper, so difficult was it to speak through the tightening of her throat.
He dragged in a ragged breath. “Charlotte.”
The sound of her name on his lips, half prayer and half plea, emboldened her. She didn’t care what happened after. She’d waited years to feel like this. Her friends had hinted at what happened between a man and a woman when they were alone. She was done with the hints. She was done with not knowing what everyone else did. To hell with what was proper. A Wildeforde might not kiss a man in a private carriage, but she would, because she was more than simply a Wildeforde. She was Lady Charlotte Stirling and her lungs felt like they were about to bubble out of her chest.
She shifted forward to the edge of her seat and rested a hand on his thigh. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. Tentatively, she ran her hand upward, and he groaned.
His fingers reached for hers, enclosing them, halting their forward momentum. “Charlotte, we can’t.” His throat bobbed.
“Says who?” If he didn’t want her, then she would not press him.
“Your brother.”
Bloody Edward. She leaned toward John, caught his chin in her hand, and made sure he was looking at her directly. “I am my own woman who makes her own choices. Has tonight not proved that?”
He closed his eyes as though he couldn’t look at her. As though he didn’t trust what he’d do if he did. “I made a promise.”
“He had no right to ask it of you.”
John removed his glasses and scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Do you want me?” she asked, fingers gripping into his thighs. “Because I want you badly. I burn for you. Every inch of my skin feels alive in a way it has never been. It begs to have your hands on it. I watched you from across the table tonight and had to stop myself from reaching for you. I want your lips on mine, so the only question that remains is whether you want me too.” She held her breath as she waited for his response.
“Yes, blast it.”
Chapter 17
There were many reasons having Charlotte was a bad, bad idea. Her brother was against the match. John and Charlotte wanted very different things in life. And what little he could offer her—a home, a title, a position—was lessened by his inability to do any of it as well as a proper lord should.
But his body wouldn’t listen to the logic, no matter how strongly John demanded that it should. Reason had become second fiddle to this biological need to be with her.
He reached across the void between them, hooked one arm around her waist and another across her shoulders, and dragged her into his lap.
She yelped in surprise, and he stilled, relaxing only when she took his face in both hands and mashed her lips to his in an eager, if unpracticed, kiss.
“Charlotte,” he murmured when she pulled back for breath.
“Mmm?” Her eyes were wide and fixated on his lips.
He was about to tell her they shouldn’t, that it was his mistake for instigating it. But then she caught a lock of his hair and tucked it behind his ear. The graze of her fingertip sent shivers down his spine. She placed a hand against his chest and immediately his heartth-thumped erratically. She smiled as she noticed, biting her lower lip and casting her eyes downward.
His gaze followed…right to her neckline, where her breasts pulled tight against silk. His cock throbbed. He held on to his control by fingernails only.
She looked up shyly, eyelashes fluttering.
Blast it.She was playing him as skillfully as she played the men around the gaming table. She might be unpracticed in the physical art of lovemaking, but she was a master flirt who was leading him around by his cock.
“Just a kiss,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. He skimmed his hand up her spine, taking delight in the way she shivered, and pulled her head toward his. He kissed her, softly, gently, pulling back for a moment and then pressing forward, letting her lips chase his. She was not the only one skilled in the art of the tease.
When she relaxed against him, he sank his fingers into her hair, pressing her closer to him. He opened his mouth, let his tongue run along the edge of her lips.
She started in surprise, and he paused until she relaxed once more. She opened up, just a fraction. It was all he needed. His tongue thrust forward; she responded in kind, and his cock strained against his breeches. She tasted so good—like honeysuckle on a warm afternoon.
She shifted, trying to get closer to him, completely unaware of how the friction of her movements sent sharp bursts of pleasure through him.
