He returned to his task then, tugging gently where needed until the glove slipped loose of her fingers. The air was chilly, but not as cold as she might have expected; the carriage had warmed up with their shared breath.
He turned her hand in his grip again so that he was clutching her fingers in his. Then, he pulled her fist up to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back of her knuckles.
“I want you a great deal, Phoebe,” he said, his mouth brushing her skin with every word. “I find myself rather surprised by how badly I want you.”
A breathwhooshed out of Phoebe in a rush of satisfied pride, understanding, and longing.
“I see,” she said.
He sat up straight again, and for a moment, Phoebe worried that this would be the end of it—that their moment was over, and he would retreat to… wherever he had gone when he’d beenavoiding her. But he didn’t release her hand; he used the grip, instead, to tug her forward until she, startled into compliance, was pulled into his lap.
Phoebe caught herself with a hand against his chest just before her head crashed into his, but even so, their faces were very close to one another. He did release her hand then, but he used that arm to wrap around her waist, holding her against him, so she found that she did not mind.
“Do you see?” he asked. “Because I don’t. This whole thing… Our marriage… We both resisted it.”
“We did,” Phoebe agreed. The buttons of his overcoat were open, and she slipped her hand between the two sides of the heavy wool. Her fingers landed on the place above his waistcoat; she could feel the thud of his heart against her palm.
“And I… don’t know what to make of you,” he confessed, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of her face. His touch was featherlight.
“You don’t like not knowing things,” she said.
“Hate it,” he agreed with a laugh. “I’ve lived a life where not knowing gets you killed.”
There was sadness beneath his laughter, and it made Phoebe’s heart ache for the boy that Clio had described to her, the onewho had been abused for the mere act of showing kindness to his sister.
She didn’t want to be like that. She didn’t want to hurt him for letting himself be vulnerable and kind.
“There isn’t an enemy here,” she told him softly. “There isn’t anyone in here but you and me.”
His touch on her face became more solid, almost as if he was trying to prove to himself that her words were true, that they really were there together.
She couldn’t think of a better way to prove it, so she kissed him.
It wasn’t like their other kisses. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t hasty. Their hands didn’t grasp, their tongues didn’t probe—at least not at first.
At first, they just felt one another. She felt the soft press of his mouth, the faint rasp where his stubble was growing against her cheeks. She could smell the soap he’d used to shave earlier; his beard grew in fast, then. She hoarded that information about him, something private just for her.
But slow though it started, their kiss still built heat between them. Soon enough, Phoebe felt her pulse start to quicken, and the warmth in her belly stoked higher.
“Aaron,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Yes?”
She pulled back enough to look at him and relished the little sound of dismay that he made when she did.
“You told me to come to you when I’m looking for something that causes me pleasure,” she said, breathless with nerves and desire. “I’m here now.”
And then their embrace was no longer slow or sweet or patient.
Aaron grasped her around the waist and flipped her over, so she was lying on the cushion of the seat—thank God for dukes and their well-padded carriages—and he was hovering above her.
“Ask and ye shall receive, darling,” he said in a way that was so unrepentantly rakish that Phoebe wondered how she had ever thought him cold.
That impression was redoubled when he dove in for another kiss that stole her breath, senses, and probably part of her soul.
He didn’t stop with a kiss, however, instead descending to her neck like a man possessed, tearing at the tie to her cloak so that her decolletage was revealed to him. He seemed determined to kiss every inch—aside, of course, for the places that he nipped and sucked—as he moved down toward the neckline of her gown.
“You,” he told her as he licked a hot stripe across her skin, “were supposed to be dowdy.”
