He cupped his right hand against her hip, anchoring her to him, and traced her arm with his left. When he came to her hand, he tugged it up, wrapping it around his neck. She took hold immediately, threading her fingers into the hairand holding on. Now she wasn’t simply being held, she was holding; now she wasn’t simply seeking his mouth, she was slanting her head, deepening the kiss.
Yes, he thought.That’s it.He staggered back a step; she was kissing him nearly off his feet. He caught her around the ribs, squeezed the delicate smallness of her waist and pressed her to him, balling handfuls of her skirt. He wanted to pick her up, to wrap her legs around him, to carry her.
He broke the kiss for a moment to scan the room. Where could he—? His grandfather’s useless room with useless statues and nowhere to—
The bench. There was no other option. Literally, it was the bench or the floor because this kiss was sapping him of his ability to stand.
“Miss Trelayne,” he whispered, scraping his emerging beard across her mouth, pressing her lips to his ear, feeling her breath.
“Mmm-hmm?” she whispered, a moan, seeking his mouth again.
“Up you go,” he said, and he slid his hands from her waist to palm her bottom and lift her, sliding her up his body. She didn’t know enough, God love her, to straddle him, her body remained straight, although languid and loose, her neck bent and face downturned to maintain the kiss.
On a gasp, she broke away. “You can’t,” she panted. “I’m too—You haven’t the strength.”
“Never say it,” he breathed, backing to the bench. “I could carry you anywhere. Don’t tempt me to carry you anywhere.”
She giggled against his mouth, a magical, delighted sound, the laugh of a much younger woman, a debutante.
When he made contact with the bench, he fell back with little grace. His only care was to brace her, to bring her down with him. He hit the velvet with a thud and guided her, hands just above her hips, gently on top of him. When she was stable, he used his knees and thighs to align herjust right. He had the idle thought that no woman had ever felt like such a perfect fit. When her face was close, he allowed her to fall the last six inches, dropping her against his chest until they were nose-to-nose.
“Oh!” she said, and he devoured the sound, recapturing her kiss-swollen mouth, smoothing his hands down her back to grab up large handfuls of her skirts. He stretched one leg down the bench and bent the other at the knee, supporting them with a boot on the ground.
She’d grasped him by the shoulders when he’d lifted her, and she still hadn’t let go.
He broke away to whisper, “Touch me?” A plea.
She answered immediately; diligent, seeking hands sank into his hair, roved his neck, cupped his face. She explored down his chest and found the edge of his coat. Moving quickly, she slid a tentative hand beneath the wool of his lapel. Ian hissed in pleasure, encouraging her, and she delved deeper. The coat suddenly became a burden he could not bear, a barrier to her touch, and he lifted them slightly to strip out of it, hurling it to the side. The waistcoat came next and he ripped the thing, sending buttons flying.
She sat in his lap, her legs now straddling him properly, watching with an intoxicating expression of lust and excitement. In his shirtsleeves now, he fell back, but not before he took up her hands and planted them on his chest.
“Touch me,” he implored again; and again she complied, sliding her hands up over the bare skin of his throat, down his shoulders, and along his ribs. She didn’t just touch him, shefelthim, as if she was memorizing his anatomy, as if she was searching his body for a deeply hidden area in urgent need of immediate attention.
Search southward, he thought, painfully aware of the most urgent, attention-seeking area, but he said nothing, kissing her again, reveling in her enthusiasm and her innocent exploration.
Without thinking he rocked to the left, making it easier for her to slide her hands inside his shirt. He caught herabout the waist with one hand and cradled the back of her head with the other, sliding his fingers into her soft, springy braid. The butterfly pins pricked his palm. He toyed with them, loosening their hold and plucking them free—first one, then another, then another. He dropped them to the floor and returned to the braid, digging his fingers in, loosening, massaging. Soft strands of seemingly endless curls fell loose, his palm full of them, and he tugged gently, eliciting a moan.
“Miss Trelayne,” he mumbled against her lips. “You’re—This—Please—”
His hands left her hair, roving over slim shoulders, swiping fingers beneath the sagging rim of her bodice. One hand slid down her body and hitched her skirts. Her legs were encased in silk stockings.
“Yes,” she gasped, shimmying against him. Her hand clutched the shoulder of his shirt.
“You are perfectly formed,” he marveled. “Exactly, perfectly correct. Every delicious bit.”
“I’m—” She didn’t finish. He kissed away whatever she would say.
She made a sound that was part sigh, part coo, and his fingertips delved deeper inside her bodice, tracing the shape of one perfect breast. The hand on her leg climbed higher, finding the spot on her thigh where the stockings dropped off and warm skin emerged.
He was just about to flip her flat on her back, to do—well, he’d not thought of precisely what he would do—when voices, excitable, high-pitched voices, a chorus—no,a mobof voices—and a very bright light forced their way into his lust-slogged brain.
Ian paused, listening.
He snapped his head up, squinting into the light.
He frow—
“Uncle? Uncle?Uncle?! Whatever are you doing to Miss Trelayne?”
