This was… No kiss had ever been so… She had no words.
None.
He kissed his way to her ear, his hot breath grazing her, making her shiver. And then he kissed the space behind it, his tongue roaming over the hollow she had never realized was so sensitive until this moment. This time, her knees did not just tremble. They turned to pudding. She would have collapsed had he not caught her with a strong arm around the waist, drawing her more firmly against him.
So firmly the undeniable ridge of his manhood pressed into her belly. Felicity was not entirely ignorant—she had paged through the secret book Lady Aylesford had requested she retrieve. And it had been…informative. Interesting.
Not nearly as interesting as Blade Winter’s hard, uncompromising body pressed to hers.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against her throat, before his wicked mouth traveled lower. Across her décolletage, the exposed portion of her bosom. “Say the word, darling.”
She should.
But then he tugged at her gown and stays. One strong movement, and her breasts popped free. Bared for him. She had never been so vulnerable, so exposed. And yet, she had never felt more alive.
His lips moved over her, inciting more passion. More pleasure. And when he sucked her nipple into his mouth, she cried out, her back arching, her body seeking. It was as if a cord ran between her breast and her core. He flicked his tongue over her nipple, making her ache in a wonderful, new way.
He lapped at her, and it was wicked. She ought to look away. To stop him. But the sight of his handsome face nestled so near to her breast, his mouth on her, was unutterably pleasurable. Sinful. Delicious.
She had never felt more alive than she did in this moment, in this scandalous man’s arms.
All wrong.
So right.
He moved to her other breast, delivering the same sweet torture.
Felicity tried to remind herself of the necessity that she maintain her reputation. That she find a proper husband. One with enough wealth to make her sisters’ debuts possible. A husband who was the complete opposite of this rough-hewn rogue who fought duels with cuckolded husbands, whose kisses would surely lead to worse sin.
But none of these reminders rendered the pleasure he wrung from her any less potent. His mouth upon her made bliss sear her straight to her toes.
Just as she was beginning to lose complete control, and with it any ability to keep from ruining herself, however, he stopped. His head lifted, and with one violent tug that bespoke his experience in such matters, he pulled her bodice back into place.
Her heart was pounding with so much force, she swore he could likely hear it.
“Don’t suppose that was proper, was it?” he murmured, smirking at her.
Her cheeks went hot.Everypart of her went hot. His dimple returned, mocking her. He was so handsome, and she had just allowed him to take shocking liberties. The sort she had never permitted another gentleman. The sort that were not just ruinous for her reputation, but deadly. If anyone were to have walked in upon them, she would have had to retire from polite society.
And then where would Esme and Cassandra be?
“You are a scoundrel, sir.”
He shrugged. “Never claimed to be a saint.”
“There is a vast difference between a saint and a scoundrel,” she pointed out, her voice trembling.
She had to retrieve the blasted book, remove herself from this chamber, and make sure she was never alone with him again. He was too tempting. Too adept at seduction. She wondered how many other ladies he had kissed and wooed, and her stomach clenched.
He was a rakehell. Undoubtedly, his conquests were legion. According to Lady Aylesford, Blade Winter was quite sought after despite his humble upbringing in the rookery.
Had he made any of them feel the way he had made her feel? Jealousy she had no right to entertain rose, strong and insistent, along with the need for self-preservation.
He watched her, not saying a word, that blue gaze of his positively scorching. She was trapped in it. Ensnared as surely as she had been by his kisses and his wicked, wicked mouth.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she demanded, infuriated with him, with herself.
How could she have been so foolish? So reckless? So desperately wanton?
