Page 25

How in the world was he supposed to go to his aunt’s soirée with her looking like that? Every man would want her just like he wanted her.

He had been wondering if his inability to perform with Lilith was a sign of a long-term problem. But looking at Patience now, he very, very distinctly knew that he did not have a physical problem—apart from the discomfort in his breeches.

Say something, he commanded himself.

“Good evening.” He cleared his throat as she came to stand by his side, so small and enticing he ached to touch her. “Duchess.”

“Do you like my dress?” she asked. “Will you be glad to introduce me to the ton? Am I pleasing you?”

Dear God, did she want to please him?

He regretted avoiding her in the past couple of weeks, and yet it was necessary. Just hearing those words out of her plush, pink mouth had his blood boiling.

He nodded, unable to look away from her lips. “Indeed,” he rasped. “You’re pleasing me very much.”

His mind was wiped clean. It must be her lips. Lips like that had no right to exist in the world. Plush and round, and with that Cupid’s bow that fit right into a slight dip in the middle of her lower lip. How would that mouth feel against his tongue? Would she taste like strawberries, as he imagined? Or cherries? Or the roses, the scent of which always lingered around her? Would she sigh if he traced her lips with his own?

The next moment, his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her to his chest and covered her lips with his own. He had to bow to reach her face, so small she was.

Soft.

Her lips were the softest thing. Sweet nectar that set his body aflame. He dipped his tongue into her depths, and shyly, she welcomed him. He wanted her; the beast was raging against his senses. He had to make a conscious effort not to tear that delicate lace and silk, not to let the crystals sewn onto her sleeves scatter over the floor, and then take her like he ached to take her.

She moaned into his mouth and softened against him. The feel of her body, the smell of roses in his nostrils, was like an invigorating elixir coursing through his bloodstream. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. He felt like fire itself. And she was his fuel, his air, his embers, and his heat. God, he had to have her.

She was his wife. This could be a real marriage. He could feel she wanted him like he did her. He could let her in, talk to her, have dinners with her, get to know her…

He wanted to.

What was he even doing?

He stepped back and let her go.

He’d just wanted one drink from her innocence, her purity. Like a balm to his jaded soul, being near her, hearing her voice—even her naive questions—soothed something within him.

She was breathing as hard as he, those delicious hemispheres of her breasts rising and falling. She was flushed, her lips red from his kisses, and he liked her that way. Her eyes were big and dark, staring at him with questions.

She was shaking.

Distantly, he realized so was he.

“Pray,” she murmured, “what was that?”

“Your kiss,” he replied.

“My first kiss…” she echoed, touching her lips with her fingers.

He wanted everything he did to her to be her first.

Her only.

“Good.”

He wanted to corrupt her to his wicked ways and drink from her innocence and teach her all about the body and about pleasure. But he could not.

“Let us go, Duchess,” he said, putting much-needed distance between them. “My aunt must be waiting for us.”

As they walked out and got into the carriage, his whole being kept reeling from the kiss, from the power of desire that had consumed him. Goddamn it. He realized a simple truth. He was never going to stop at one kiss. No matter the consequences.