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“You’re all covered up,” he said impatiently. “Look at you! Buttoned to the throat and the wrists, your skirts covering every inch of flesh, and beneath all that there are petticoats and stays and cotton and lace and God knows what. Even your hands, covered.”
“Not now, though.” He’d freed one of them, and suddenly, with a little frisson, she felt his skin against hers. His fingers were warm, intimate, and she let him entangle them with hers. Perhaps that was why women were always covered, she thought, because the touch of skin on skin was so disturbing. So erotic.
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He was looking down at her hand, resting now in his, and then he bent his head and kissed her palm. His mouth was hot. She gasped at the sensation. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching her face, but whatever he saw there gave him no reason to stop. Indeed, Marietta thought, it was more likely to be encouragement.
“I have been thinking about you kissing me,” she said, her voice oddly breathless, and not just from the tightness of her stays. “I woke up dreaming of it and I felt…I don’t know,” she glanced at him, and found him watching her with flattering attention. “I felt odd.”
“You want us to stop?” he asked quietly.
“No, oh no, I don’t want that. I meant that I felt odd in a nice way, a way that made me think of sending you a note to ask you to come and kiss me at once.”
“You should have,” he said, but he was laughing at her.
“I mean it, Max. And now, with your mouth on my hand, I feel the same sensation. An ache. Almost a longing.”
He smiled. “Ah,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?” she replied irritably. “That isn’t an answer. If you know what is wrong with me then say so.”
His thumb rubbed back and forth over her palm, then brushed the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist. He lifted her hand to his mouth again and made a bracelet of little teasing kisses, until she shivered.
“Do you feel it now?” he whispered. He moved in closer, his fingers brushing her cheek, her temple, then down to her lips. His thumb traced the shape of her mouth, and she closed her eyes. “And now?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I…I don’t remember feeling this with…I…it’s as if I want more, Max. As if, nice though this is, I want something more.”
He sighed, and sat back, staring at her with dark eyes that were no longer haughty or smug. “It is a well-known fact, darling Marietta, that the more a woman is kissed and caressed, the more she will want to be kissed and caressed. She begins to crave the sensation. And yes, she wants more. Like any female in the animal kingdom, her body is telling her to mate with the male of her choice.”
Marietta glared at him. “So I am no better than the giraffes at the zoo?”
Max smiled. “You asked me to teach you about desire. This is desire.”
“I don’t believe it.” She began to pull her glove back on.
Max leaned forward suddenly and drew down the blind over the coach window. Now it was dim and quiet, and she could hear his breathing close by.
“Max?” She put out her hands toward him.
He captured them with his. Before she could protest he kissed her mouth, his lips caressing, gentle but firm. And kept kissing her, his hands moving to her wrists and then the crook of her elbows. He undid her bonnet, tossing it aside, and reached for the pins that held her hair. It came tumbling down, golden tresses thick and sweet with the scent of her. He ran his fingers through them, his mouth still on hers, his tongue stroking hers with a wantonness that made her head spin.
She felt as if she might swoon. She had heard of women swooning in novels, but never in real life, not from a man’s kiss, but Max was coming very close to achieving it.
“Master Max?” It was Daniel’s jovial voice up in the driver’s seat. “Should we go back to Berkley Square now, sir?”
Max lifted his mouth long enough to call, “Another turn around the park, Daniel,” and then dived into the kiss again.
Her body was throbbing. Her breasts felt tender and swollen, and the ache between her legs nearly drove her mad. Because she wanted him. He was right, she wanted to mate with the male of her choice, and the male of her choice was definitely Max Valland.
When he finally stopped, her head fell against his shoulder and he left it there, stroking her hair from her flushed cheek, his chest rising and falling as violently as hers.
“This is desire,” he said huskily. “What we’re feeling now is desire.”
Was he right? He must be. And it made sense. If not for desire, why else would women who knew better run off with scoundrels or refuse to leave them or actually marry them? Love and desire, they went hand in hand, one blurring into the other.
He was still very close, his breath warm on her cheek. As if he couldn’t help himself, he pressed his lips to her skin, little kisses, capturing the corner of her mouth. With a groan she turned her face, and found his mouth again, opening her lips eagerly to him. This time the kiss was deeper, more passionate, their tongues mating in a way their bodies couldn’t. She turned to him and her breasts pressed to his chest, the ache in them intensifying, as his arm wound about her waist and held her there.
As if he understood, he raised his hand and closed it over her, but she could barely feel it through her clothing. Frustrated she made a sound, half sob and half laugh, pushing against him. His fingers squeezed and she felt that, just, and a warm wave of pleasure engulfed her. How would it be if his bare skin was against her bare skin, from neck to toes?
