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She pressed one of his hands, deliberately, meaningfully, to her waist. He used it to yank her against him, and she kissed him.Want me, that kiss both commanded and begged.Want me now and forever. Her hand trailed over his throat, kept from her by a mile of linen. She hooked her fingertips in the folds of his neckcloth, willing it gone.
It ignored her.
“What’s wrong?” Guy murmured. “Have you forgotten what comes next? Will you require instructions?”
“Your cravat. You did not wear one on previous occasions. I don’t like it.” She stopped pestering his neckcloth and grabbed a handful of linen. “And as for this bothersome shirt…”
“Do you mean for us to ruin another of my shirts?”
She looked him right in the eye. “I mean for us to ruin me.”
He caught her meaning. His eyes darkened; his breath hitched. He wanted this. He wantedher. He must. A man as honorable as he would never take that step if he was not truly willing to marry her.
“My last chance to ruin you, and I do hate to waste an opportunity,” he murmured. “It won’t be ruination once we’re married.”
Arabella’s palm drifted to rest on the hollow of his cheek, his sharp jaw, where his skin was intriguingly rough with stubble. On previous occasions, he’d been freshly shaved. She would know such things about him once they were married, little intimacies such as the feel of his beard at different times of the day. Did he wake quickly or slowly, cheerfully or not? How did he sleep? What were his moods? So much of him to discover. A lifetime of it. Hers to take, starting now.
“We don’t have much time,” she said. “Sit on the settee.”
At first, he didn’t move, his hand still burning her through her gown. Uncertainty threaded through her: She had miscalculated yet again. He did not want a quick seduction in the drawing room. He did not truly mean to marry her. His taste for dangerous games did not run to this.
But then his palm skittered upward, over her waist to her ribcage to the underside of her breasts, carelessly dragging the fabric of her gown with it, so the air weaved around her ankles.
“The settee, Guy. This is no time for a crisis of principles.”
“Firstly, my breeches are dirty,” he said, the rough promise in his voice at odds with his mundane words. “While my principles permit me to debauch a willing young lady in the drawing room, they forbid me from dirtying the furniture. I would have thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I do, rather.”
“And secondly…”
He moved swiftly, stooping to loop one arm around her buttocks. Her feet left the ground and she gripped his shoulders as he barreled her backward across the room to the table. A sweep of his arm sent a workbasket flying and she landed on the sturdy oak. Before she could find her balance, he flipped up her skirts, so she was staring down at her own pale, naked thighs above the royal-blue ribbons of her stockings. Brazenly, he shoved up her skirts further, exposing the dark curls of her quim to the velvet air.
He laughed, a wicked, triumphant laugh. Dazed, aroused, breathless, Arabella locked her hands around his neck, and let herself fall backward as he loomed over her, eyes smoldering.
One hot, rough hand landed on her thigh, and began a slow, relentless march upward; her quim, rather pleased with this change in circumstances, pulsed in readiness for his touch.
“This isn’t the settee, Guy,” she said, her tone miraculously resembling hauteur. “Will you always have such difficulty with taking direction?”
“And secondly,” he repeated, as calmly as if he had not exerted himself at all; it was rather humbling to realize he had not. “Let us agree, right now, that you will not spend all our marriage ordering me about.”
His fingers were advancing up her thigh in inflammatory circles. No mistaking her own scent now, mingling with his. Earthy, messy, awkward— Perfect.
“Of course not,” she retorted, with treacherous huskiness. “I had not thought to order you about more than three quarters of the time.”
“Is that so?” His infernal touch danced in place at the uppermost inch of her inner thigh. “I do believe there is scope for further negotiation.”
“You mean to haggle at a time like this?”
“Seems the ideal time to haggle.”
His fingers broached that final inch, slipped between the folds of her quim, slid inside her. With a desperate gasp, she reared up to kiss him, but his teasing lips hovered out of reach. His intrepid fingers continued their exploration. They found the sensitive spot they were seeking; rampant pleasure made her arch and gasp.
“As I shall be a reasonable and lenient husband, I shall allow you to order me around one-third of the time.”
“What you think you will allow me is of little interest,” she retorted. His exquisite strokes did not pause. “My final offer: I shall order you around only one-half of the time. The other half, I shall allow you tothinkyou are ordering me around.”
Again, she reared up to kiss him; this time, he let her catch him, their lips meeting and moving in time with his rhythmic touch. He straightened, bringing her with him, their mouths not parting for a moment, as she grappled with his breeches and released his hot, hard length into her hands.
