Page 37 of The Mistletoe Dare

“I already told you I can’t. You bring out the worst in me.”

“Hell and damnation, Georgina. Don’t get yourself all upset about something that happened years ago. This is—”

“Nice, Rochford. This is nice. Isn’t it?” She glanced up at him uncertainly. Comforting him was one thing, but if he really didn’t want her affection….

“Yes,” he admitted cautiously, relieving her mind. “But—”

“Just shut up, will you?” She interrupted him, satisfied there was no real objection beyond the usual muttering about her reputation and the fact they were like oil and water and ought to be kept apart.

He subsided with a huff.

She glared up at him. “Are you going to stand there like an idiot or are you going to hug me back?”

“You never said I had to play an active part in this nonsense,” he said, looking revolted.

“Well, I’m saying it now. Please,” she added, finding she wished for the feel of his arms about her more than anything.

Looking like she’d asked him to kiss a three-day-old fish, Rochford reluctantly put his hands on her back, his arms not touching her.

She rolled her eyes. “Rochford. That’s not a hug. Do it properly.”

His lips twitched, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to hug such a bossy little madam?”

“Or maybe you want to a great deal and don’t wish to admit it,” she retorted.

“Fine.”

Georgie let out a little oof as he pulled her against his chest, holding her close. She sighed, content, and quieted, hoping that perhaps this soothed him as much as it did her. Uncertain, she glanced up again, wondering if he was merely humouring her still, to find him watching her. There was certainly warmth there now, and the desire to kiss her shone starkly from his face. She held her breath, her gaze falling to his lips, and he turned away at once. His scar, she realised. He thought she was staring at the scar, when she was only desperate for the feel of his lips against her own. She reached up, her fingers caressing the damaged skin gently, turning his face back to her. She touched the place where his beard became patchy as the scar cut through the hair and stroked, surprised by how soft it was. Then she touched her finger to his lips, gently tracing the outline of his mouth, over the scar, over a surprisingly delicate cupid’s bow and a full lower lip.

His breath caught.

“Don’t back out this time,” she whispered, and lifted on her toes, sliding her hand into his hair and tugging him down.

Mistake! Mistake! Retreat! screamed an agitated voice in her head, but it was already far too late. The moment his lips touched hers, she was burning as if she was fuel, and he was the spark that lit her.

Although most of the local lads around Wildsyde dared not touch her for fear of her father’s or brothers’ wrath, Georgie had managed a few stolen kisses over the years. Only innocent pecks, but she’d thought she’d experienced enough to have a basic idea of how to go about it. Yet nothing had ever felt like this. Rochford was gentle, touching his lips to hers with so many soft presses of his mouth she was uncertain if it was still one kiss or a hundred. His large hand cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek as he tilted her head back. The warmth of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth made her gasp at the intimacy of it, and he swept inside, tasting her. A groan of pleasure rumbled through his chest, so raw that a strange longing sensation jolted through Georgie. She wanted to hear him make that sound again; she wanted to be closer to him.

Thought became deed, and she clung to him, arching her hips against his, equally shocked and delighted by the feel of his arousal. He wanted her, and the knowledge rocked her to her core, the pleasure of it dizzying as she realised she wanted him too, far more than she’d realised. Oh, Lord. This was why he’d warned her to stay away, but she didn’t care in this moment. She only wanted….

The sound of a throat clearing had Rochford dropping his hold on her as if she’d turned into a venomous snake.

Georgie gave a squeal, startled and unbalanced by the sudden removal of the large body that had been holding her up. Without him, her knees, which had been feeling strangely unsteady, gave up.

Strong arms clasped her before she landed on her backside on the icy ground, but they weren’t Rochford’s. Georgie turned to see that Jules had caught her. He was staring at Rochford, his expression not exactly threatening, but not entirely friendly either. Jules tore his gaze from his friend to look at her.

“You well, Georgie?” he asked softly.

Georgie nodded, rather mortified but relieved at least that it was only Jules, who could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. She flushed and glanced at Rochford, intending to give him a rueful smile, but the expression died on her lips as she saw the furious glint in his eyes.

“So, this was why you were so eager for me to come for Christmas. Cooked this little scheme up between you, I suppose?” he said to Jules, and though she heard the rage in his voice, she saw too the colour on the crests of his cheeks. Georgie stared at him for a moment, not comprehending his words. Then they sank in.

“You… You think we planned this? Together? Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, surprised by how much the accusation hurt her. By the look in Jules’ eyes, he wasn’t best pleased either. The bloody imbecile. Oh, how she hated him!

“Rochford!” Jules snapped, his face white with anger, but Rochford didn’t heed the warning.

“Well, it’s convenient, isn’t it? That he just happens along at the correct moment?” he said to her, and the sneer at his lips was most certainly deliberate now.

Georgie’s temper lit. “And how exactly did he know we’d be here? You were the one that led me on a merry dance about the gardens. I only followed you—you obnoxious arse—because I wanted to make amends, and I wish to God I hadn’t now!”