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He moved closer, and Marissa fell the room grow smaller, the air less cool. He stopped before her, and his hand touched her jaw as it had before. The last time, she'd thought he would kiss her, but now she had no idea what he meant by it.
"Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand, Marissa York?"
"I..." By God, everything he did was a mystery. "You understand that—"
"I do."
"All right. Then, yes, I suppose I do as well."
His mouth lifted in that already-familiar crooked smile. "I'm not sure you're a romantic at all," he said. Then he tipped her face up and lowered his head, and my God, he was finally going to kiss her.
He moved so slowly that she could feel her own breath rush between them. She kept her eyes open, worried he'd draw away if she didn't watch. But finally, finally, his mouth touched hers, and she sighed with stark relief.
His lips brushed over hers, a soft rasp that set her nerves tingling. He smelled good
so close to her. That same spice she caught a hint of on rare occasions. He smelled like something she wanted to taste.
So she did, pressing her mouth more firmly to his. Jude rewarded her by parting his lips just enough to catch her bottom lip between his. Now there was a hint of wetness when she moved. Now it felt wicked and less than safe.
The tingling in her nerves spread out, chasing down her body with happy speed.
Marissa had been kissed before, and she knew how it was done, so she angled her head and licked his plump bottom lip, and then she had to do nothing but let him kiss her.
And kiss her he did, with tongue and mouth and nibbling teeth. Marissa found herself clutching his lapels in an attempt to keep him near. At any moment
he could lift his head, and then when would he kiss her again? She'd waited so long already. . . .
His tongue rubbed a slow caress against hers, and Marissa moaned and strained toward him. His chest was so hard, and she could feel a faint roughness to his chin, but his mouth was nothing but warmth and sweet need. The kiss went on for long minutes, and soon enough she was thinking of couches and things that could be done on them. She was thinking of his thigh and what it might feel like under his trousers. Men had crisp hair on their thighs, she knew. And hot skin. And other interesting things in the vicinity.
So when he finally lifted his head, Marissa let him go, anticipating that something even better might happen. But nothing better did.
"That's as official as it gets, I'd say." His voice was deeper than normal, and much more rumbly.
Marissa fell back on her heels when she realized she was still poised on tiptoe. "Pardon?"
"Our betrothal. Shall we go share our joyful news?"
"I rather thought we'd stay here a moment and find ourselves even happier."
"Marissa! What kind of gentleman would I be if I tried to sway things in my favor by increasing your odds of. . . increasing?"
Her eyes slid toward the very comfortable looking couch on the far side of the room. It was far larger than the sewing-room settee. "You said there were other ways. ..."
"Oh, Christ," Jude said to the ceiling. His neck stretched up when he raised his chin, and the shadowed darkness of his nascent beard caught her eye. Another thing that made him so much rougher
than other gentlemen. Even when he was closely shaven, she could see the dark threat of whiskers beneath his skin.
Yes, he was altogether too rough. Yet he kissed like some sort of wicked angel.
"I'll never be fit for public presentation if you say things like that to me, Marissa."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Might we kiss more?"
Jude closed his eyes and shook his head. "Edward will come looking for us shortly, I'm sure. Anyway, it won't be good for my nerves."
