He turned to her then, a low groan falling from his lips.
He was going to kiss her. It was there in his hot silver gaze, the suggestion of a kiss throbbing between them, the intent of one, just waiting to be breathed into life, and she wanted his mouth on hers. Had wanted it since that night in the kitchen at Grantham Lodge, when she made him ginger biscuits and tasted the sweetness of dark sugar and ginger on his lips.
She waited, her heart beating a mad tattoo in her chest, her body trembling. He moved closer—so close she could hear the rasp of his breath sawing in and out of his chest, and in that instant, she would have sworn she could feel his heart, beating in time with hers.
He came closer still, his warm breath drifting over the shell of her ear.
Yet still, he didn’t touch her.
It might have only been a moment, but it felt as if an eternity passed as they gazed at each other, his eyes so dark, darker than she’d ever seen them before.
“What do you want, Rose?” He lowered his head, his lips hovering over hers.
“I—I—” Her murmur dissolved in a soft gasp, her eyes dropping closed as he traced a fingertip over her lips.
“No, Rose. Look at me.” He dragged his knuckles down her cheek. “Open your eyes, and look at me.”
Her eyelids were curiously heavy, the heat he always seemed to call forth in her unfurling in her belly. But she did as he bid her, holding his gaze, the blazing heat she saw in those depths searing her, setting her every nerve ending alight.
“Yes, like that,” he whispered, before asking again. “What do you want, Rose?”
What she wanted . . . oh, it was something she shouldn’t want, something that was certain to end in disaster and heartbreak, but even so, she was already leaning into him, his heat drawing her closer—so close it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her palms against his chest and slide her fingers into his hair. “You. I want you, Max.”
It was true. He was aduke, a man destined to leave her behind with nothing but memories to comfort her, but God help her, she couldn’t deny the truth.
She wanted him. She’d wanted him for weeks now, it seemed.
He let out a breath then, long and deep and slow as if he’d been holding it, the soft drift of it tickling the wispy curls at her temples, and then he was reaching for her, sliding his fingers into her hair, his palms brushing the sensitive skin at the back of her neck, and this time it was she who held her breath, held it as his lips drew closer, then closer still . . .
When the kiss came at last, it was so soft, so light, she might almost have imagined she was dreaming it, the tender press of his firm lips against hers. But it was no dream, for all that he took her mouth gently, the tip of his tongue dancing against the seam of her lips, and dear God . . .
Dear God. Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes drifted closed, all the reasons why they shouldn’t be here, like this—Ambrose and Hammond Court, Lady Emily, and his imminent return to London—fading from her mind with every brush of his lips.
She could do nothing but twine her arms around his neck, sink into his kiss, and give way to the passion rushing through her blood.
She’d never known desire could be like this—so powerful it stole her reason, her logic, and snatched every thought from her head as it swept her up in its undertow, drawing her deeper and deeper until she’d gone too far, and she was drowning in it.
Drowning, with no wish to surface.
Perhaps he knew, then—perhaps he felt her surrender—because a low growl ripped from his chest. She opened her mouth to him, and he grew more ravenous, his fingers tangling in her hair as he swept his tongue into her welcoming mouth, stroking inside again and again. “So sweet, Rose,” he whispered against her lips, his voice hoarse. “How can you taste so sweet?”
She tried to answer, but she had no words. A soft sound left her lips instead, a sound unlike any she’d ever made before—not a word, but a moan, or perhaps a sigh, but he didn’t need words to understand what she was asking for, what she needed. He simply gave it to her, his big hands sliding lower, one settling into the arch of her back and the other cupping the curve of her hip. He eased her closer until she was pressed against him, her breasts crushed to his chest, his thighs touching hers, a thick column of heat throbbing against her belly.
She knew what it was, and what it meant. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. It was madness, a mistake, yet she found herself pressing closer, the sensitive tips of her breasts hardening.
Just one more kiss. One more . . . surely, one more little kiss wouldn’t matter? One harmless little kiss, then she’d force herself to slip free of his arms.
But it was no use. She was falling deeper into him with every moment, her breath catching as his hands moved over her, unfastening the buttons of her cloak, and she was helping him, their frantic fingers tangling together as they worked them loose one by one, and this was no longer just an innocent kiss, no longer innocent at all, but she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.
“Wrap your arms around my neck, Rose,” he murmured, before taking her lips in another wild kiss.
She obeyed without protest, without thinking, because in that breathless moment, she could deny him nothing. She rose to her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, and the next thing she knew, the floor vanished from beneath her feet. “Max?”
“Shhh. I’ve got you.” He swept her up into his arms and cradled her against the hard plane of his chest as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.
As if she were precious.
He carried her to the kitchen table, set her down carefully, and stepped into the open space between her thighs. He made quick work of the buttons at the back of her dress, loosening the half dozen at the top, then pushing the fabric aside so he could touch his lips to her throat, her neck, the hot drift of his breath against the trace of dampness his lips left on her skin driving her mad.
