Page 47 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

“I’m sorry.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I didn’t mean… All I meant was to illustrate that I understand. A little.”

“Perhaps we both carry guilt we shouldn’t,” he said, smoothing down her hair and brushing it back from her face.

This close, she could see every tiny line and crease and dimple of his skin. His absurdly long eyelashes. A dimple at the very base of his chin. The colors in his blue eyes: yellows, browns, greens, and grays.

His fingers slid along her chin, stopping just before her ear. His thumb brushed her mouth.

She was iron to his magnet. The force that drew them together was impossible to ignore, impossible to resist. His eyes seemed alight now.

“Jessamine,” he said, and his voice scraped across her name, making it sound rough and needy.

Heat ignited in her lower belly.

“Andrew.” She threaded both hands in his hair. “Don’t turn me away now, please.”

“No.” His other hand skated up her side to her shoulder, then back down.

His fingers were still on her face, and he searched her expression as though he expected to find something there.

Whatever it was, Jessamine didn’t know. All she knew was this new and strange hunger.

This was no longer about Rebecca or about Percy; this was about the way he looked at her, as though she consumed him.

As though he wished to devour her.

And she wanted nothing more than to be devoured.

His breath flowed over her lips. They were in a bedchamber, his bedchamber. On a bed.

Jessamine gripped his shoulders, holding him close.

“You make it… impossible,” he said, eyes fluttering closed for an instant, “to do as I vowed I would… To keep my hands to myself when all I want is to unravel you.”

And then he kissed her, and the want in her chest became an inferno.

Jessamine kissed him back with all the frantic desperation she felt in him.

This time, she would not end matters before they progressed.

This time, she would see it through to the very end.

Whatever that entailed.

Chapter Sixteen

Andrew felt as though he might be on the verge of insanity. Seeing her tears—the intensity and the trust—had unlocked something frighteningly primal in him, and the fact she wanted him too only made it harder to resist her.

Worse still, he didn’t want to resist her.

He wanted to make her his, to spread her legs and discover the color of the curls between them, to know once and for all what was under that dress. It was as if she had known, when she wore it today, how much it would heat his blood to see it on her.

He kissed her fiercely, with every ounce of the desire in his body, cupping her face and drinking from her lips. She clung to his shoulders, as eager as he.

The time against the tree flashed into his mind, although he had been doing his best to forget ever since.

They were only here for William. That was the only reason they had married, and it felt wrong to be distracted with one another when the boy needed them.

But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help drawing her closer. They twisted, and then her back was against the bed, and he leaned over her, supporting his weight on his forearms. Her legs opened so naturally, and he settled between them like rain falling to the earth. Her skirts slid up her thighs, and he brought a hand to her stockinged knee.