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“Have I whipped the cream properly?”
The ache returned between her thighs. There shouldn’t be anything remotely wicked about whipping cream, chocolate, or tasting anything from a spoon except that when Torrington was involved, everything became sinful.
“I—” Her fingers gripped the edge of the worktable, nails biting into the wood to steady herself. Rosalind had the urge to fling herself at him and never let go. A knot tightened inside her at the thought, the fear so absolute it momentarily banished the sheer joy of being with Torrington. She had the fleeting notion to run up the stairs and never return.
“—Didn’t expect to meet you in the kitchen.” She looked down at Bijou who had closed her eyes.
“Whatdidyou expect?” He set down the spoon, leaning toward her once again, his nose gliding along her temple, gently forcing her back until Rosalind felt the press of the worktable against her upper thighs.
“That you’d give me an opinion on the sponge cake,” she said, reaching inside the basket to brandish a bit of the cake at him. “Would you like a taste?”
“Yes, Rosalind.” The teasing glint disappeared from his eyes. “I most certainly want a taste. Ofyou. I think of little else.” His hands shot out, taking hold of Rosalind’s hips.
“Oh.” The cake in her fingers fell to the floor with a plop as he half-lifted, half-pulled her to sit atop the table.
“Spread your legs, Rosalind.”
“I—yes.” She took a shaky breath, the blood pulsing ferociously beneath her skin, and inched her legs apart.
Torrington’s hand hooked beneath the hem of her skirts, drawing them up to her knees before wedging himself into the space between her thighs.
Rosalind’s skin warmed all over with anticipation and a small bit of mortification at her own actions. There was the matter of her boldness, which she kept regretting on and off. For instance, the absence of—
“You’re not wearing any undergarments, Rosalind.” Torrington was looking at her, his shocked gaze shot full of amber lights.
“No,” she said in a shaky voice. “I am not.” Rosalind tried to control her breathing as she reached for another piece of the orange sponge cake. “Will you try some?” she whispered, holding out a small slice.
Torrington’s hand slid up her stockinged legs to her thigh. He traced a circle with his forefinger before parting his mouth and taking a bite of the cake, his eyes never once leaving hers. Eating the cake from her hands, he licked up every last crumb, tongue gliding along the side of each finger—an unexpectedly, erotic experience—before pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.
“I might swoon,” she said in a rush. “I don’t, usually. But—”
“Breathe, Rosalind.” He brushed his lips gently over hers, claiming her mouth with exquisite care until she was grasping at the collar of his shirt. His mouth moved to trail along the slope of her neck, whispering in French against her skin.
I should have learned how to speak French.
The warmth of his fingers glided through her already damp flesh, teasing at her slit, circling the sensitive nub hidden in her folds. The very same part of herself Rosalind had fumbled over with her own fingers. Her experimentation had never felt like this.
“What about thepain au chocolat?”She choked at the feel of his thumb circling her entrance. “Won’t it be ruined?”
“The fact that you came to me without wearing any underthings is far more important.” His lips fell on hers once more, hungry, and urgent, licking at her mouth, while his fingers—
A whimper left her. “Please. More of that.” Hips tilting forward, Rosalind plucked at his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a cravat, and her fingertips made contact with the heat of his skin. Her hands ran over his chest to his ribs, hesitating at the edge of his trousers.
Torrington’s mouth pulled away. He rested his forehead against hers.
Her hand trailed down from his waist, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric. Curious, Rosalind traced the outline, fascinated at the way he pulsed and twitched beneath her fingers. She wanted to see him. Touch him. She—
Torrington gently pushed her down until her back was against the table, her legs dangling haphazardly off the edge. His free hand trailed down to her breast, toying with the lace at her bodice before running one finger back and forth until her nipple peaked beneath his touch.
Her legs kicked against his. “Please don’t stop,” she moaned.
When he pushed her skirts all the way up her thighs, Rosalind’s eyes fluttered shut. Silence stretched between them. She could feel her arousal, the wetness growing between her thighs intensifying the longer he looked. Embarrassed, she tried to squeeze her legs together, but he stopped her.
“No.” He pressed a kiss to her thigh. “You’re beautiful, my brazen baker. Perfect, in fact. Don’t move. Don’t open your eyes yet.”
The heat of his body disappeared for a moment before returning. She gasped as something warm was dribbled over her skin. The scent of chocolate filled her nostrils.
He’s poured chocolate on me.Another rush of wetness slid between her thighs.
