Page 49 of A Wallflower to Win the Viscount

‘This.’

He placed his hands on her slender waist and hoisted her into the air. She gave a small gasp of surprise but soon had the cat in her arms.

He lowered her slowly back to the ground with a twinge of disappointment that the manoeuvre was over so quickly and the cat had suddenly become compliant. When her feet touched the ground, the animal jumped from her arms and wandered off, as if completely oblivious to the mayhem it had caused.

He could let her go now, but his hands remained on her waist.

It felt so good to be touching her again, even though he knew it to be wrong. Very wrong.

Somehow his arm slid around her waist, holding her close against him, so close he could smell the faint scent of lavender in her hair and could feel the warmth of her body through his other hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach.

He inhaled deeply, cherishing the memory of her feminine scent, the one that was hers and hers alone, the one that had so intoxicated him when they had kissed.

He had no reason to still be holding her, and yet his mind was scrambling for a reason to keep her in his arms.

She leant back against him. He swallowed a groan as he looked down at the creamy skin of her neck. It would take so little effort to lean down and kiss that soft skin, to taste it one more time, and even less effort for his hand to move up her body, to cup her full breasts.

But that was something he must not do. It would be unforgivable.

Despite the command of his brain, his hand moved slowly, inch by inch, coming to a halt just underneath the swell of her breasts.

He closed his eyes and just in time caught the primal growl that was threatening to escape. But how was he supposed to suppress the carnal side of his nature, when her curvaceous body was against his, when her shapely buttocks were pressing into his thighs, when he could practically feel the weight of her breasts resting on his hands.

But suppress it he must.

She turned and looked up at him, her blue eyes dark, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each shallow breath.

Had he ever seen a woman look more beautiful, more desirable, more tempting? The answer to that was obvious. No. She was the most beautiful, desirable, tempting woman he had ever met, but it was a temptation he should not, could not, give in to.

But he badly wanted to. Wanted her, with an intensity that he was finding impossible to fight.

Stop. Now. Let her go. He heard those words as if from a distance, the voice getting fainter and fainter as he gazed down at her rose-pink lips.

Then her mouth was on his, and his mind went blank as his physical craving for her took complete control of his mind and body.

Chapter Seventeen

Primrose didn’t know whether she had kissed him or he had kissed her, nor did she care. His lips were back on hers, and it felt glorious. That was all that mattered.

Her hands were quickly around his neck as she kissed him with a strength that was as surprising as it was exciting, but what choice did she have? She had to satisfy her craving for him, a craving that was driving her mad. His kiss deepened, as if he wanted to devour her, as if his hunger was as insatiable as her own.

When he had walked out of her drawing room, having said he would soon be returning to America, she’d thought she had lost him. Now she was back in his arms, where she belonged. And it was wonderful.

With little finesse and lots of need, his tongue pushed against her lips, parting them, and then plunged inside her mouth, his arms holding her tightly against his body.

She kissed him back with the same urgency, her tongue lightly stroking his, then entering into a tantalising dance as her body moved against his, desperate for more of his touch. She wanted his hands to caress all of her, not just hold her tight. She wanted to feel his lips on more of her body, not just her mouth.

As if responding to her silent plea, his fingers tugged at the top of her blouse, opening the buttons, and his hand slid inside, cupping her breast.

‘Oh, yes,’ Primrose sighed, or moaned, she wasn’t sure which. All she knew was his hand on her breast had further inflamed the fire burning deep inside her, and it was now all but consuming her. His fingers stroked her tight peak. The burning fire engulfing her body increased with every delicious stroke.

Still kissing her, still caressing her breast, his other hand slid to her bottom, pulling her in even tighter against the hard bulge in his trousers. She knew what he wanted; it was what she wanted too. Arching her back, she rubbed against his arousal, sending her own need surging up to fever pitch.

‘Oh, Primrose,’ he all but growled, ‘you are so beautiful.’

The intensity of her longing for him increased with the sound of those few words. The man she loved had just called her beautiful again. The man she wanted with all her heart, body and soul had lost himself to her, wanted her as much as she wanted him.

As if both had lost the strength in their legs, they slipped to the ground, and she found herself lying on the soft rug, looking up at him. Somehow the study door had closed. Had he pushed it shut? When? And why did she care?