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She remained only a feather’s width away. So close her breath was almost his own.
She shook her head. “No. I can’t. But—”
“But you want to deny it?”
“No. No, I don’t. But I cannot accept it when—”
“You can leave. Leave Wolfbridge anytime you want, Sloane.” He leaned past her and set his glass on the side table next to the settee, then wedged the tumbler she had clasped in front of her from her hands. He set that glass next to his and then his focus went solely onto her, his words guttural in their honesty. “You say it, and I will have a horse saddled for you. Have my carriage readied. You say it and you can leave. You can leave this instant. You’re not my prisoner, Sloane.”
“You are”—she pulled back slightly from him, her eyes searching his face—“you are serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The gold mark in her left iris sparked, almost like fire against the ocean blue of her eye. “Then I’ll not deny it.”
All the invitation he needed. He leaned forward, his lips finding hers again. Parting them. Possessing the full skin, the flick of her tongue against his, the taste of her.
Her hands lifted, sliding up his arms and curling about his neck. The bare fingers of her right hand went upward to bury into his hair as she pulled her body forward. Pulled her body into him.
Heaven help him. Her body, her breasts pressing into him.
His mouth dropped from her lips and trailed down her neck. She didn’t stop him, didn’t move away, didn’t say a word.
If anything, her breath sped, her hold along the back of his head tightening.
He moved his hand along her side upward, his thumb brushing the side of her breast.
An exhale. A soft moan at the caress.
His hand drifted downward, and before he could slip it around to the small of her back, her left hand moved down, grasping his wrist and bringing it back upward to her breast.
He smiled into the skin in the crook of her neck. She wasn’t afraid to tell him what she liked. Refreshing. And aggravating to any last strains of decorum he possessed.
Teasing along the bare skin above her bodice, his thumb slid beneath the lace edging of the fabric. He tugged the muslin downward, the shift, the stays, as his lips trailed a path to her breast. Just as the fabric cleared her nipple, he set his lips about the pink nub, his tongue caressing the tip of it.
“Aaaa.” Part gasp, part carnal exhale from her throat.
“You enjoy that?” he asked, his mouth still tangled with her breast.
“Yes. From your lips—” She paused, drawing a trembling breath. “Yes, I do.”
The taste of her skin sweet citrus, intoxicating, he could have set his lips onto her breast and not looked up for days.
He shifted her closer, dragging her left leg over his lap to pull her closer and his hand caught her calf just under the bottom hem of her skirt. His hand trailed upward. Past the silk stocking. Past the ribbon that held the stocking in place. Bare skin. Her inner thigh. Soft, supple, and tensing, prickling under his touch.
“Yes—that—your hand higher.” Breathless words stuttered from her lungs in between gasps for breath.
Words that sent him into a maelstrom of his own making that he no longer had control of.
Damn his bloody limbs and fingers. He wasn’t able to stop this—resist her. His fingers trailed higher, reaching the core of her.
A soft groan raw in her throat urged him on.
He slipped his forefinger into her folds.
A guttural growl left her lips and nearly undid him.
“Yes.”
