Her hands tightened at his waist, fingers pressing into the hard line of him beneath wool and linen. He tasted of night air and brandy, and something unmistakably male. When histongue brushed the seam of her mouth, a soft sound escaped her before she could swallow it.
“I know we were supposed to drink chocolate,” he murmured against her mouth. “But I’m accustomed to taking what I want.”
His hand slid from her hair to the curve of her neck, thumb stroking the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, and she felt the tremor pass through him as surely as it did her.
“Another truth shared and we’re not even dancing.”
“We are.” He bent to her throat, his breath grazing her skin. “You can feel the rhythm where we touch. The unmistakable sway between your hips and mine.”
She could. Her heart thudded against her ribs, her breasts strained against the fabric, and his unmistakable hardness pressed against her, firm and insistent.
There was only one problem.
This wasn’t the dance she’d bargained for.
She would not have him mistake want for weakness. If Dominic Hawke wanted to touch her, he’d pay the price.
“We had an agreement, Mr Hawke.” She pushed against his chest, putting space between them. “I want chocolate and stars and secrets. Only then will we dance.”
His mouth curved. “Fine.”
She had not expected him to concede so easily.
“I’ll not touch you again until you beg.”
She smiled. “That almost sounds like a bet, sir.”
“Dominic,” he corrected softly. “It is. I like the odds, and I’m prepared to place a wager.”
“What’s the wager?”
“That we’ll kiss again before the chocolate cools.”
She lifted her chin, though she feared he was right. “That’s a foolish thing to say to a woman intent on proving a point.”
“Perhaps I’m confident in my ability to please you.”
And that would not do.
“Good. You can begin by shaking the blankets and setting out the chairs while I warm the chocolate on the hob grate.”
She didn’t want to linger by the fire when she was hot enough to crack the mercury, but she left him to play the hero.
There was a knack to creating the froth on top; it meant constant stirring with themolinet. The chocolate thickened slowly, rich with the smell of cocoa and spice. Her attention strayed, and she stole a glance around the doorjamb.
Either Dominic Hawke was cold now he’d removed his greatcoat, or he liked the scent of her blanket. He’d drawn it close, his hand moving over the softness as though committing the texture to memory.
He drew it around his shoulders and lowered himself into the chair, his legs set wide, claiming the space without apology.
Daphne hurried back to stir the chocolate, convinced she held the winning hand. All she had to do was resist him, until he learned she could not be handled at will.
She returned, balancing two cups of chocolate on porcelain saucers. “I added a little cinnamon to chase away the chill.”
He stood, his thumb brushing hers as he took the saucer and examined the pattern with mild curiosity. “Did you take all my grandmother’s china from the house?”
She kept her hand steady by force of will. “Forgive me. I didn’t know it was an heirloom. You did say to take whatever I wanted. And I’ve never seen a prettier set.”
He coughed, then pursed his lips, but a chuckle escaped.
