"Tell me to go back to my room," he said, his voice rough. "Tell me to leave you alone, and I will. I'll lock the door and we'll pretend this conversation never happened. But if you don't..."
"If I don't?"
His thumb finally made contact, the lightest brush against her cheekbone. "Then I'm going to kiss you, Catherine. And I'm afraid I might not be able to stop at just a kiss."
The sensible thing would be to step back. To send him away. To preserve what remained of her reputation and her sanity. But Catherine had been sensible her whole life, and where had it gotten her? Nearly betrothed to a butterfly collector, running through storms, sharing rooms with strangers.
"I don't want you to stop," she breathed.
His eyes darkened, and she saw him struggle for control. "You need to be very sure. Because once we cross this line..."
"We've already crossed every other line tonight. What's one more?"
"Catherine." Her name was a warning, a plea.
She made the decision for both of them, rising on her toes to press her lips to his.
For a moment, he was perfectly still, as if she'd shocked him. Then his control shattered. His arms came around her, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss. It was nothing like the chaste pecks she'd received from suitors; this was fire and demand and a hunger that matched her own.
His hands tangled in her hair, angling her head to better plunder her mouth. She gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weak. She clung to him, fingers gripping his waistcoat, trying to anchor herself against the tide of sensation.
"Heavens, Catherine," he groaned against her mouth. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me," she challenged, drunk on brandy and desire and the freedom of being someone else for just one night.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "You're an innocent."
It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway. "Does it matter?"
"It should." His thumb traced her lower lip, swollen from his kisses. "I should be noble. Send you back to your room with your virtue intact."
"I don't want noble. I want you."
He made a sound that was part laugh, part groan. "You'll be the death of me." But his hands were already moving, one sliding down to her waist, the other cupping her face with surprising gentleness. "If we do this, we do it my way."
"Your way?"
"I won't hurt you," he said softly. "But I won't treat you like glass either. You're stronger than that. You deserve better than fumbling in the dark."
"Then what do you propose?"
Instead of answering, he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. His hands moved with purpose now, one firm at the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him, the other tangling in her hair, controlling the angle of the kiss. It was dominant without being forceful, commanding without being cruel.
"Trust me," he murmured against her lips. "Can you do that? Can you trust me to take care of you?"
The rational part of her brain screamed that trusting strange men in coaching inns was exactly how young ladies ended up ruined. But something in his eyes, in the careful way he held her, as if she was precious but not fragile, made her nod.
"Words, sweetheart. I need words."
The endearment made her shiver. "Yes. I trust you."
"Good girl."
Those two words shouldn't have affected her the way they did, sending heat pooling low in her abdomen. He noticed and smiled, a wicked thing that transformed his face from handsome to devastating.
"You like that," he observed. "Being told you're good."
"I don't know what you mean."
