“None.”
He didn’t ask twice.
His mouth claimed hers while his hand edged higher, like the sweet glide of steel over silk. He found the ends of the pink ribbon fastened into a bow and tugged gently. Her undoing.
Nothing prepared her for the intimate caress as he slid her stocking to her knee. The skim of his fingers on her bare skin had her shuddering as he traced a path to the place she felt him most keenly.
He paused for a heartbeat.
“If you want me to continue, open for me.”
She did. A little nervously.
A moan rumbled in his throat, the sound deepening when his fingers brushed over her, the part he’d promised to explore.
“I knew you’d feel this good.”
The rasp in his voice, the lazy heat in his eyes, the ache between her legs, made her forget she was innocent.
“Dominic.”
She rocked her hips against his hand and looked at him. Moonlight caught the chestnut in his hair. The steel had left his gaze, replaced by something darker. His breathing deepened, but his touch stayed steady.
It did not change when her breath grew ragged. Nor when her fingers dug into his shoulder.
“Look at me.”
She tried. God, she tried.
But the world had narrowed to the relentless circling of his touch, to the unbearable tightening building deep inside her. Each measured movement drew her closer to something she could neither name nor stop.
“Dominic—”
Her voice broke on the second syllable.
“That’s it,” he said softly. “Don’t fight it.”
She didn’t.
The tension snapped.
Pleasure swept through her in a fierce, blinding rush, stealing the air from her lungs and the strength from her limbs. Her back arched. Her nails dug into him. His name left her in a breathless plea.
He held her through it, his mouth at her temple, his hand never wavering as she trembled against him.
And when the last shudder left her, she realised she was looking at him.
Not the stars.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dominic left Shadowmere before sunrise, the letter heavy in his pocket, the secret weighing more with every mile. The countryside offered no absolution. Daphne’s scent clung to him, stubborn as guilt.
He should be at the cottage, not riding to London on a road slick with mist, not breaking his oath before dawn. She would not forgive him, not in this, but he would rather risk her wrath than her life.
London announced itself with smoke and noise and the sour stench of the river. The streets churned with carts and curses. As a boy, he’d learned how quickly the city could swallow you whole. He’d never be that powerless again.
The Moseleys did not deal in dockside shadows. They kept an office in Drury Lane, wore tailored coats, and counted other men’s misfortunes. A man given a nine o’clock appointment did not arrive late, nor did he show his full hand.
