Darcy said nothing. She could not. Her gaze betrayed her, dropping—traitorously—to his mouth. A strange heat unfurled low within her, sharp and startling in its intensity.
His lips curved, slow and knowing. “Ah…I think you wish me to kiss you.”
“Rubbish,” she said softly, though the word lacked conviction.
“Don’t you?” he asked, stepping closer still.
Darcy should have stepped back. She did not. “I only wish to understand,” she managed, though her voice had lost its earlier steadiness.
His expression changed as she watched, the easy charm fading into something quieter, more intent. There was a deliberation in his gaze now… and something else—something that made her breath catch, for it looked very much like a desire to kiss her. How was it possible for him to convey so much with only a look?
“Understand what, Red?”
Darcy stared at him, at a loss for how to shape the words. It felt so difficult to admit to the quiet stirrings of temptation rising within her, as though giving them voice would make them far too real.
His mouth curved faintly. “Afraid?”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
“Then tell me.”
Darcy swallowed, her throat tightening despite her resolve. “I want to know what it feels like…” she said at last, her voice softening despite herself. “To feel the press of lips against mine.”
“Very well,” he said, his gaze gleaming with provocative anticipation. “Then allow me to show you.”
“Are you so willing to sacrifice yourself to my education in such matters?” she asked, a note of dry humor threading her voice.
“I have always been the very soul of generosity and gentlemanly gallantry,” he returned smoothly. “How could I refuse a lady in need of instruction?”
Before she could gather her thoughts, he reached out—not with urgency, but with deliberate care—and lifted a hand to her cheek. His touch was warm, the brush of his thumb unexpectedly gentle as it traced just beneath her eye.
Darcy stilled, a flicker of surprise moving through her. “My lord…”
“Considering we are about to become kissing friends,” he murmured, “you must call me Sebastian.”
“Kissing friends?”
“Yes.”
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her. “I would not presume any sort of friendship between us, my lord.”
“That is because,” he said, his gaze lingering upon her mouth, “you are wholly unacquainted with the sort of wicked satisfaction that may exist between… friends.”
His thumb shifted ever so slightly against her skin, a subtle reminder of his touch against her flesh.
“Particularly,” he added, more softly still, “the kissing sort.”
Sebastian.His name moved quietly through her mind, though she did not dare speak it aloud. Darcy was bemused by the way he made her feel, as though she longed to know him in every particular, despite the clear truth that he was a scoundrel devoted to a life of carnality.
“First,” he murmured, his voice now no more than a whisper between them, “there is the kiss of comfort.”
Sebastain did not rush her. He did not claim her mouth at once. Instead, he bent slowly, granting her every opportunity to turn away.
A tremor moved through Darcy, sharp and undeniable. She caught the faint, intoxicating scent of him—something warm and masculine, touched with spice and night—and it seemed to wrap about her senses, drawing her in. Heat gathered between them, close enough now that she could feel it against her skin, could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Her heart began to pound—hard, insistent—until she was certain he must hear it.
Yet she did not move. Anticipation coiled low in her belly, tight and unfamiliar, threaded with something she could not name. Something that made her pulse quicken and her thoughts scatter.
