Page 57 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

That roused the provocateur in her. Another sad failing to be held to her account.

He raised his sword to block her. Swiftly she let her sword fall and slipped past his guard, stepping close to his body into the arch made by his extended arm and bent knee.

He withdrew to a standing pose and stared down at her. His eyes flared as she stepped toward him again.

“I neglected one point,” she said, her voice low and husky. “You kiss in the most excellent fashion.”

That scowl. She’d scored a hit. “You are not to speak of kissing.” His gaze dropped to her lips.

“Am I not to kiss you again? Now that truly is a waste.”

His jaw tightened. “I told you my terms,” he said. “You can only take this charade so far.”

He didn’t want to kiss her. She’d misread him, badly. Hurt and shame scored through her, as if she’d taken a blow to the chest. Quickly she stepped back. “I see. I am sorr⁠—”

With a groan he caught her, hands clamping around her forearms, and pulled her toward him. When she stumbled, he guided her arms around his neck. His face was an inch from hers, and the rumble within his chest vibrated inside her ribs, pressed against him.

She couldn’t find her breath. His gaze moved over every line of her face, and she wouldn’t breathe until she knew the answer to the question in his eyes, if he was satisfied with what he saw.

“This isn’t a ruse any longer, Cerys.” His voice came hoarse, as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him.

“I know,” she whispered, threading her fingertips into his hair.

He bent his head, and the gentle press of his lips surprised her, considering the roar in her ears. She’d expected obliteration, not this sweet mingling. She cupped his head and opened herself wholly to his exploration, giving herself up to discovery beneath his mouth and his questing hands.

He slid his palms down her arms and traced what he could of her, back, sides, the curve of her derriere in the breeches. She let out a small squeak as he squeezed her rear, lifting her against him. His manhood stirred, and an answering ache swirled deep in her belly, a desire she didn’t know how to sate.

“You,” he groaned against her mouth. “You are perfect.”

Far from it, but she was glad he thought so. She nestled closer, wanting every part of her body touching his. The inferno caught and consumed her. He looked so hard and polished on the surface, yet to the touch he was warm, pliable man, firm and yet able to be wounded.

She tightened her arms around his shoulders, stroking his scalp. He purred like a cat and changed the angle of his kiss, deepening the contact, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She whimpered with delight.

She wouldn’t wound him. She would protect him from everything she could. And surely it meant something that there was this between them, this towering flame, this climbing vine of need and delight and raw want that curled around her in a tight coil.

He broke from her lips to move his mouth over her cheek, across her jaw, pressing kisses beneath the sensitive hollow of her ear. She shivered in his arms.

“I could recite your perfections,” he muttered, moving his mouth to her neck. She tipped her head, receiving the adoration. Arrows of pleasure darted from all the places he touched her, plunging deep into her body, growing that hunger at her core. “But there are so many of them. And I can’t think.”

“Just kiss me,” she breathed. She wanted to climb his body. She wanted to wrap herself around him. She wanted to melt into him, and she wanted to draw him inside her and hold her there, protected, part of her always. She was nothing but a single arc of sensation, a leaping flame, and he was the fuel she lived on.

He pulled off her neckcloth and kissed her throat, and she thought her head might roll off her body, so intense was the pleasure. She pressed her breasts against his hands as he worked free the top button of her coat, then the plain waistcoat, then slid his hand inside the open neck of her shirt. He groaned against her neck when he encountered her riding stays, with the straps that circled her shoulders and attached in the back. They were very useful during activity like sword fighting, but a complicated effort to don and remove.

“I am going mad for you,” he muttered. He slid his fingers beneath the fabric of her stays until he cupped a breast, teasing the nipple. A trail of fire soared through her body, another burning arrow adding to the heat her center. She moaned and almost sobbed, gripping his shoulders.

He slid a hand beneath her bottom and hoisted her onto his body, so he could kiss the tops of her breasts, and she gasped at the strength of him, the burn of his mouth on her skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist and only then realized his manhood pressed directly between her legs. There was the source of her frantic need, and there was the pressure that could relieve it.

She had never joined with a man before. If she did this with him, something would form between them that could never be unmade.

She opened her eyes and found him staring at her face, watching her expressions of ecstasy and doubt. She was too exposed to him. He could see everything of her.

“Cerys.” His murmur was a hoarse caress against her skin. “Cerys.” He fisted a hand in her hair and raked his mouth over her neck. “I can’t take you right here in Andover’s saloon, but hell’s teeth, I want to.” He cradled his hands around her bottom, cupping her closer against him, as if they were joined already.

“I want you as I’ve never wanted anyone,” he whispered in her ear.

His admission jolted a wave of cold, clear sense, washing over her like she’d been drenched with a bucket of water straight from the well.

She was clinging to Dante Manelli, in plain sight of anyone who cared to enter the room, and she was acting like the hoyden her mother had always bemoaned her becoming.