Luke was hit with a wave of desire so hot, his knees almost buckled. He touched her instead, covering her hands and locking them around his neck. When she held him, he massaged his way downward, sliding greedy fingers over her shoulders, grazing the sides of her breasts, bumping over her ribs. He stopped at her waist, settling his hands in the sweet curve at the top of her hips, and pulled her to him. Through it all, they never broke the kiss.
For five minutes... ten... an eternity, they leaned there, melting together; bodies, breath, minds foggy with sensation. The library dissolved; beyond that, the house. They existed in a swirl of buzzy pleasure, of fevered closeness.
Luke taught her, and she learned, and then they were both proficient, and the kiss became distinctive to them alone. The slant they liked best, the nip she wanted, the clinging that drove him mad. It was, perhaps, the most perfect kiss Luke had ever experienced, sweet, and languid, and pure.
When, at last, Miss Allard broke away to suck in breath, Luke dropped his head and nuzzled her, scraping the scruff of his cheek across her lips, to her throat, to the little hairs on the side of her neck. He kissed her there, just behind her ear. She reached to her hat and pulled it free, dropping pins. A curtain of ebony hair swung, concealing him against her throat. He breathed her in, reveling in the smell of her and the silk of her hair. She whimpered and he scraped her again with his beard. He found her mouth again, kissing her with a new ferocity. She was ready this time, meeting him kiss for kiss. Her body pressed so tightly against him, he nearly lost his footing. He let go of her waist and reached behind him for the bookcase. When he found it, he stumbled back, taking her with him. They fell against the wall of books. Two thin volumes dropped to the floor and their feet turned up the rug. He widened his stance and kicked a stack of journals; they slid across the floor in a fanning arc. He didn’t care. His hands were on her back now, massaging, tracing the stiff points of her stays and the delicate bumps of her spine. He found the small, sweet swell of her breasts and filled his palms with their weight.
She moved her hands to his jaw, cupping his cheeks; then down his neck to his shoulders. Her fingers explored more than massaged. Her uncertainty was obvious, her inexperience—but also her curious desire. The combination thrilled him. He ripped his mouth away, panting, and whispered, “Mercy, m’étoile, please...” He flattened himself against the bookcase, trying to peel off his coat.
“Wh—?” She teetered before him, eyes glazed, lips swollen, watching as he tore the garment away. Next, his neckcloth, yanked free in terse, shaky jerks. He went for the waistcoat next, popping buttons. Dazed, she began to list backward, and he reached for her, crashing her to him again.
Her next kisses were careless, wild, and he matched her ferocity. His technique was more practiced, but hers was uninhibited, raw—and it thrilled him. He feasted on her mouth, drinking in her youth and innocence and sweet desire. There were no words. What could he say but half-truths and negotiations; what could she say but why? They could wrangle with these, or they could kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
Now his hands roamed lower, below her waist, to the sumptuous curve of her bottom. She responded with a sweet little whimper, the sound of pleasure and longing. He scooped her closer, pressing her against the steel of his erection, and she whimpered again. The sound pinioned his brain, and he was devoid of all useful thought. He wanted only to elicit the sound again and again, louder, more frantic.
Catching her beneath the bottom, he slid her up until her feet were off the floor. She dropped her face to his hair and fastened her hands to his shoulders. In a haze, he glanced around. Horizontal surfaces were limited, only the desk or a divan by the fire. Staggering, he carried her to the grate.
They hit the leather in a graceless heap. He went down first and guided her to his chest. The kiss was unbroken. His thoughts came in blurry little wafts of consciousness.Never before so good. Never so sensual. Not satisfied until now. Never wanted so much.
He sprawled on the divan and she affected a strange levitation above him, all knees and palms, a kitten uncertain of her balance. He’d been too delirious to settle her. She started to giggle and slide. He laughed, too, bumping her lips with his teeth. Skimming his hands down her ribs, he aligned her on his body. She relaxed at last, melding into him. He propped up a knee, nudging her legs on either side of his thigh, notching her against his leg. He was rewarded with an achingly beautiful intake of breath, the sound of pleasure and shock. He dropped an open palm on her bottom, wedging her more snugly in place.
“Captain,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice desperate.
“M’étoile,”he answered. The foreign word rolled from his tongue without thought.
She broke the kiss and smiled down at him. “That’s twice you’ve referred to me as your star. A French speaker, are you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Hmmm. Are you?”
“Of course. Years of lessons. Miriam and Whittle insisted...”
He leaned up to recapture her mouth, not wanting to speak of lessons, or parents, or the fact that he was spouting French. He didn’t want to speak at all. All he wanted was to tip sideways and roll her beneath him. He wanted to—
“Will that be all, sir?” A familiar voice cut through the sound of rustling and heavy breathing.
Luke went still.
“Or will there be something else?” the voice said again.
Luke grimaced and rolled Miss Allard between himself and the seatback, blocking her from view.
He pushed up on his elbow and blinked into the firelight. “For the love of God, Abbott. You must be joking.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” intoned Abbott. He loomed in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His face, as ever, was expressionless.
“In future, you must knock, Abbott. For God’s sake, man.”
“The door was open so I was unable to knock, sir.”
“What of the bloody door facing? Or the wall? What of clearing your throat or stomping with heavy footsteps like a reasonable person? If you please.” Luke swung to sit up, careful to shield Miss Allard. “What is it?”
“Today is Wednesday, sir,” Abbott reported, “and on Wednesdays, I ride to the village for provisions. I am inquiring if you and the lady might need anything further?”
“No. Thank you, Abbott.” Luke swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “Carry on with your day. If we leave before you return, I’ll secure the locks.”
“Very good, sir,” said Abbott. The man turned and stumped away.
Luke closed his eyes, willing his breathing to slow down. Behind him, he felt Miss Allard wiggle. The movement zinged through his body like a shooting star. He closed his eyes again. He took a deep breath. He turned to peer down at her.
