He tasted of ginger tea and lemon scone: spicy and tart. Of late nights and stolen moments. Of lengthy pursuits and sweet victories.
He tasted like the Jack of her memories.
But the man touching her, weaving his fingers through her hair to change the angle of the kiss, was more potent than ever.
When she placed her hands on his chest to push him away, she found herself pulling him closer.
His tongue twined with hers, thrusting and parrying in a sensual duel. It was another battle, one that had no clear leader.
She met him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his chest when he moaned low in his throat.
The huskiness in his tone undid her. Made her ache. She scooted closer on her knees, her hips meeting his in an awkward bump.
The ache grew. Deepened.
Madness overtook her. A frenzy that had her fingers grasping her breasts through her dress. Had one hand trailing down the cotton across her stomach... to rub the ache between her legs.
She fumbled for a moment, first rubbing without thinking, then in short, quick circles.
Yes!
The madness hit a fever pitch.
She tore her mouth away to give a cry of surprise.
Her stomach twisted, and her hips opened more fully, preparing for something Anna didn’t quite grasp. Her other hand joined her first, bunching the cotton between her legs—
Hands snatched her wrists and pulled her to her feet, Jackson along with her. “Don’t.” The look in his eyes was wild.Feral.
Heat pulsed between her legs.
His eyes darkened, as if he knew. He licked his lips, his tone little more than a growl when he said more gently, “Let me.”
She could only nod and bite her lip to restrain another moan as he sank back to his knees. As his gloveless hands found her bare ankle. As his fingers met the laced bottom of her drawers and trailed up her calf, passed her knee, up the back of her thigh.
Her dress was up around her hips now. The shock of air through the thin cotton should have chilled her. She wasn’t cold.
She was on fire.
His fingers kneaded her flesh through the fabric of her drawers. First the back, his thumb skimming the underside of her arse. Then the front, inching higher and higher until his fingers hooked inside her waistband and tugged them low. Lower. Exposing her most private places.
“Heavens,” he breathed. The look on his face: spiritual. “You are lovely.”
The tone of his voice: devout.
Heat flushed her cheeks. She was a laborer’s daughter; she had no doubt of what he intended to do. But the way he kneeled before her, gazing at her as if she were a queen to be celebrated, a saint to be worshipped.
It was sweet torture.
She didn’t want sweet.
“Kiss me or else, Duke—”
She wasn’t prepared for the rush of heat, for the intimate slide of his tongue between her thighs.
For the loss of everything.
She gripped his head as she threw back her own.
