He managed to turn his moan into a low chuckle, but only just. The lass could tell herself she wasn’t attracted to him, but they both knew the truth. Perhaps now he could give her a taste of what she was missing, tempt her the way she’d tempted him. “I’d’ve taken ye against a tree like this.” His words brought him closer, and he leaned down to run his nose against her temple. “I’d kiss yer neck, like this…” His lips brushed the skin below her ear and she shuddered. “And like this,” a nip of his teeth beneath her chin, “and like this…” On the last, he fluttered his tongue against her pulse point. The salt of her perspiration swirled with the faint lemon of her hair, intoxicating him.
“Th-then what?” she breathed.
“When I’d kissed ye enough, ye’d be desperate for me to touch ye.” He took one palm from the rough wood and stroked down her cheek, her neck, held with his fingertips against the collar of her jacket, tugging it the barest bit. “Is this where ye’d need me to touch ye?”
Her lips parted on a whimper, her head falling against the bark of the tree as she shook it from side to side.
“Mmm, no, it wouldnae be, would it?” He lowered his hand from her neck to her hip, pulling himself closer but not quite flush with her body. Heat radiated between them, practically tangible in the air. “Ye’d want my hands all over ye, my mouth all over ye.”
She was likely unaware that her hips were rocking towards him, seeking friction. But he kept his distance, despite how desperately he wanted to press his aching cock against her, how urgent his need for relief had become. He’d meant this to be a game, a chance to prove to her—and himself—that the attraction was mutual, that they’d be doing themselves a disservice by not letting themselves indulge.
But now he’d lost himself, his desperation for her clawing up his spine, scratching and gouging at his self-control until he’d forgotten everything buther, the soft puffs of her breath, the lemon smell of her hair, the joy of making her feel somethinggood.
“Before long I’d have yer skirts up, my hand between yer legs. Christ, ye’d be wet for me, aye?”
She nodded, then he dropped his forehead to hers, her rapid exhales heated against his lips, her palms scrabbling against the tree behind her.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d talk himself into such a state that he’d embarrass himself by coming without even touching himself. “I’d press my fingers into your sweet cunny, fill ye, stop that ache. Ye’d be begging me for relief.”
Another whimper, and now she was arching off the tree, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest, and he gripped her hip tighter, scratched his fingertips into the bark behind her head, to restrain himself from tumbling her in the grass right there in full view of the breakfast room.
“Have ye ever had a man pleasure ye so well ye screamed his name?”
“No,” she moaned.
“Ye’d scream my name, Violet,” he growled. “Scream it so loud no one could question who’d made ye feel so good ye couldnae stand it.”
Her hand raised to grip the fabric of his jacket as she whimpered again, tugged him close enough that her lips nearly touched his.
And lord, did he want to kiss her, and everything else he’d described, he wanted to own her lips, mark her, claim her.
But he couldn’t kiss her like she was any other woman. As much as he wanted to dismiss the sudden spread in his chest whenever he thought of her as lust, he’d lost his grip on that excuse. She already meant more to him, had peeled back his layers to see to the scarred insides, and still placed her trust in him. By talking to her like this, by discounting her desire to keep her heart at a distance, he wasn’t showing her the respect she deserved.
He dropped his lips to hers in a chaste kiss, telling her with his lips that he cared for her, that she was worthy of more than the world had given her, even if he did not know how he could provide it.
“If ye wanted me to touch ye, if ye wanted it to be real, that’s what I’d do,” he whispered as he pulled away, released her hip. “Do ye want it to be real?”
When he stepped back, her gaze was half-lidded, her lips slick and parted. She blinked rapidly and opened her eyes wide. Perhaps he imagined the regret he saw in those whisky depths.
“W-we should go,” she managed.
“We should.” He didn’t want to go, but allowed her to tug his hand and put them in motion, entering the house. He wanted to strip her down slowly, worship her body the way she deserved to be worshiped. Already he was planning how they could avoid detection and give them more time together, but they’d been in front of the window when he’d kissed her, and they were already in the hallway, already going into the breakfast room—
Which was completely empty.
Violet stopped short. “What’s happened? Where is everyone?”
Callum swept his eyes around the room, even under the sideboard, as though he expected twenty English aristos to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”
A pale footman emerged, clutching a carafe of coffee in trembling hands. “Oh, pardon me. Would you care for something to e—” He swallowed the last word as his face paled, and he pressedhis free hand to his lips. With a fast bow, he dropped the carafe on the sideboard and bolted from the room.
“What in the bloody hell—”
Mrs. Cullwick rushed in and cut off his curse, her gray hair sticking out every which way and her cheeks drawn. “Oh, Miss Violet, I apologize.” She wiped her hands on her apron and ran one hand over her hair. “We weren’t expecting many for breakfast this morning, after what happened last night.”
Callum and Violet exchanged startled glances. “What happened last night?” she asked, as though fearful of the answer.
The housekeeper made a sign of the cross and mumbled a quick prayer under her breath. “Sickness, horrible sickness. I suspect the oysters, but the entire household came down with it. Cook is beside herself, but his lordship insisted on having raw ones with dinner, and—” She cut herself off as her own face turned puce. “If you’ll excuse—”
