But for the moment, it was he who was giving. He had claimed her mouth with sudden fervor at first, then slowing and gentling, delivering kisses that were tender and soft. Years of waiting and longing vanished. She had not come here tonight for this, but now that she found herself in his arms, his lips fused with hers, she knew she could not stop. First, he had made his mark upon her name, then her mouth, and now she needed more.
He seemed to understand her lack of experience, for he coaxed her lips with his, guiding her. Her hands crept of their own accord to his shoulders. How she wished she were not wearing gloves. The longing to run her bare fingers through the hair at his nape, to skim her touch over the ridge of his jaw, to absorb his heat, rose within, uncontrollable.
His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and she was unprepared for the shocking wetness and warmth. She gasped. His tongue slid sinuously against hers. The taste of him flooded her. Sweet, like…chocolate.
How odd it was to think of this bold, powerful man drinking chocolate. She would have supposed he spent his evenings consuming spirits as most gentlemen did. Stanhope had always smelled of brandy and tobacco. But then, there was much about Damian Winter that surprised her.
Tentatively, she moved her tongue against his. The languorous slide made desire settle low in her belly, a new, heavy sense of awareness blossoming between her thighs. He growled and increased the pressure of his mouth on hers, kissing her harder, his tongue delving deeper. Her arms wound around his neck. She pressed herself to him shamelessly, wantonly. Forgetting this was wrong. Forgetting it was forbidden, a terrible idea, far too dangerous…
Her breasts connected with his chest, her already-hard nipples aching. Where he was solid, she was soft. How decadent it was, the crush of her body aligning with his. She had not been prepared for the staggering force of her need. For how much she would want him.
He pulled his mouth from hers, staring down at her with an inscrutable expression. His mahogany hair fell rakishly over his brow. His eyes were dark, twin obsidian discs. His lips were red from the kisses they had shared, his breathing as harsh and ragged as hers. He was so handsome, and she did not regret kissing him though she knew she may later, when she was removed from his intoxicating presence.
For now, it was as if they were the only two people in the building, in London, the world. Just for this charmed span of the next few moments, she could forget everything. Duty, propriety, years of waiting and longing for that which could never be hers…
She felt uncommonly brave beneath his gaze, capable of anything.
“Have you changed your mind, Mira?” he asked softly.
Mira.No one had ever shortened her name but him, and she could not lie, she liked the way it sounded in his gruff baritone.
She struggled to make sense of his words. Her mind was a jumble of his making. Those kisses had robbed her of the ability to speak.
“Why would I have need to change my mind?” she managed past her tingling lips.
Lips that wanted his on them again.
They were still pressed together, her body melting into his.
He rubbed his mouth over hers in the parody of a kiss she desperately desired. Teasing, tempting, luring her under his sensual spell.
“You said you required a lover,” he murmured. “Have you found another man?”
Of course she had not. From the instant their gazes had first connected, Damian Winter had been the only man she wanted. No other would do. Even if it was all wrong. Even if this was dangerous. She recognized that now.
“Are you still offering yourself for the task?” she dared to ask.
“On one condition.”
Did she accept?
Yes, said her body.
No, said her inner Duchess of Stanhope.
“What is your condition?” asked her lips, which having a mind of their own, just wanted his upon them once more.
“That I am your only lover. I do not share.” He brushed his mouth over hers in the barest whisper of a caress.
Oh.
“I do not share either,” she returned.
Which was a lie. She had spent her entire married life sharing her husband with his mistresses. But she had not minded. At least Stanhope had been plaguing them instead of her. The notion of sharing the man before her, however?
Unacceptable, said every part of her.
“While we are lovers, I am yours,” he said.
