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“I accept your resignation, Miss Griffin,” he murmured nonetheless, slanting to her, the scent of flowers in his nostrils, head and heart. “And you must call me Seth.”
The carriage lurched and their lips neared, breaths mingling… His entire body suffused with blistering desire and–
A finger pressed to his lips. Soft but undeniable.
“Just one matter.”
“Yes?”
“Without tongue, if you please.”
Speechless, he stilled.
“When my rancid betrothed attempted to kiss me, you see, he inserted his tongue. I later discovered he had a French grandmother, but being Anglo-Saxon, I assume you will refrain. However just in case–”
“Why don’t you reserve judgement, Miss Griffi–”
“And perhaps you ought to call me Matilda,” she gabbled on. “And perhaps I ought to–”
He kissed her.
Keep it gentle,he scolded himself, don’t scare her, despite her lips being sweet temptation and bitter joy, hops and meadows, spring and summer.
Thus he maintained the kiss at tame and exploratory, their mouths merely caressing, brushing and tasting.
As he’d so wished to do since Matilda Griffin had marched into his study with her bold plan, he slipped a hand into her sleek hair, scattered pins and drove her nearer, breasts teasing his chest as the carriage jolted along the cobbled street.
All might have been fine; it may well have ended there; he would have drawn back.
But her hand clasped his shoulder and then climbed till her fingers twisted in the short hair at his nape, nails lightly scratching, yanking him close and crushing their lips together.
Ferocious need erupted, spiralling his control and grinding it to dust.
He hauled her tight, a hand to her curvaceous rump so that she half-straddled him, a scalding heat upon his thigh, and he kissed down her neck, nipped her throat, the shadows a colluding partner to his endeavour.
Guilt should have arisen, but her gasping breaths and breathy moans urged him on.
“Seth…”
And likewise, he growled her name against her skin as those small hands explored his chest, tugging at his neckcloth.
She was a twisting flame within his arms and he claimed her mouth once more. Her lips parted and without heed or thought, he thrust his tongue, tasted.
Then cursed as she stiffened.
Then groaned as she softened, allowing him in.
Slender fingers kneaded his chest, stroked his throat, and somehow her fulsome breast came to be in his palm, but no resistance was offered as he caressed and stroked, only a heartfelt moan and tip of hips.
Heaven help him, he wanted it all. To tug at her saffron bodice, rip at her ribbons, yank up her skirts and pull her fully astride, to sink inside and possess her.
To ravish the proper, passionate and beautiful Miss Matilda Griffin…
So…he slowed his kiss, covered her grasping hands with his own, halted their roaming and instead turned his thoughts to being belted in the mug by Jack Scroggins.
Matilda Griffin had wanted to erase the memory of her previous kiss, he knew that. She’d enjoyed her evening and sought to continue her adventure, but he must now be the one to draw it to a close.
They turned a corner and moonlight stole into the carriage. She goggled, lips moist and eyes wide in wonder, and the devil on his shoulder stabbed him in the groin and asked why the hell he was halting.
