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Trumpets blared in his head. Drums pounded in his chest. His loins swelled with a passion as mighty as reverberating chords from a cathedral organ. When her tongue fluttered shyly against his, the fanfare reached a deafening crescendo.
Miss Warren was no longer passive. Instead, on a melting whimper, she beckoned him into heaven. Her arms slid around him, her hands feverishly stroked his naked back, and her lips were avid on his.
Moments ago, he’d been cold. Now he burned. Her frantic touch lit an inferno inside him.
When he dug his hands into that silken fall of hair, it slid cool and satiny against his fingers. He cradled her head and angled her up, changing the kiss. Lightning pleasure zigzagged through him. Left him blind and hot and aching.
Her hands were greedy on his skin. She touched him wherever she could reach. Shoulders. Neck. Chest. She cupped the back of his head to bring him closer. He drowned in sensation.
Lost to everything but desire, he swung her around and tumbled her onto the bed. As she fell back, the towels cascaded to the carpet.
Eagerly he came down over her to lie between her thighs. Yielding to the wonder that was Charlotte Warren, he reveled in his fate. Lost to animal instinct, he moved his hips, pressing into the soft curve of her stomach with a primeval rhythm. A rhythm that promised a more profound invasion.
Soon.
A moan of pleasure escaped her, and her body softened in preparation for his. The muffled sound shuddered through him and played sweet counterpoint to the trumpets and drums of victory. Lightheaded with excitement and lack of air, Lyle abandoned that miracle of a mouth to rain wild kisses, wilder than the storm outside, over that lovely, flushed face, the slender length of her neck. The air was thick with the scent of her arousal.
“Damn it, you’re wearing too many clothes,” he panted, reaching the barrier of her dress. He wanted more of her. He wanted everything.
Her demure collar fastened to the throat. He needed to touch her breasts or he’d go mad. When he fumbled for the hooks at the back, his usual aplomb fled. He took forever to find the trick of releasing them. By the time he did, he and Miss Warren were both panting, the saw of their breathing rising above the slap of rain on the windowpanes.
With shaking hands, he tugged until her dress drooped over her chest. The sight of her plain white linen undergarments blasted him with such heat, he felt like he burned alive. When his hand settled on her breast, they both groaned with relief.
Her nipple was a hard, insistent point beneath his palm. When he brushed it with his thumb, she jerked against him. He teased her until she shook. His other hand slid down her flank before settling between her legs. He found the slit in the drenched cotton of her drawers, and his fingers curled around her mound.
Before he could venture farther, she stiffened in his arms and gave a muffled protest against his lips. For one breathless moment, they both lay unmoving, then she began to struggle.
Damn and blast. He’d gone too far.
“Stop!” She shoved clumsily at his chest. “Stop, curse you.”
For one blazing moment, he considered ignoring the code of a lifetime. But when he rose on his arms to look down into her face, flushed, frightened, lovely, he couldn’t do it. Somewhere beneath the raging desire, a minute speck of honor remained. He was ashamed how close he verged to disregarding it.
With a guttural groan, he wrenched away and flopped onto his back beside her.
For a long time, he stared up at the heavy oak beams crossing the ceiling and battled to contain his desire. His conscience chose this moment to return, armed with a big stick. He couldn’t do this to he
r. He knew he couldn’t do this. But good God, how he wanted to.
Gradually his breathing calmed until he could hear the rain and the crackle of the fire over the thunder of his blood. Surprise was the last reaction to surface from the mire of shame and frustration inside him. He’d let Miss Warren go. So why the devil hadn’t she fled to safety?
“Please say something,” she said in a shaky voice. She didn’t sound at all like the stalwart creature who had grudgingly invited him inside the manor this afternoon.
He turned his head until he could see her lying beside him. Night had fallen, but he’d lit a few candles when he’d set the fire. He watched as she pushed herself up against the pillows. One graceful hand clutched her bodice and her hair fell about her shoulders in shining dark blond waves. Her lips were red and swollen with his kisses.
She looked utterly ravished—and ravishing.
Without thinking, he lifted one hand to touch her mouth, meaning only to soothe. She flinched away with an incoherent murmur of denial.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, even as some wicked element reveled in the transformation of his self-contained hostess into this ruffled, irresistible, brazen creature.
He wanted this wanton woman. But then, he’d wanted the confident lassie who had stood her ground when he’d arrived.
What had started, at least in part, as a game grounded in idle curiosity became more important than his next breath.
“I don’t understand what happened,” she said dully.
“It’s quite simple.” He pushed up until he sat beside her, leaning against the bedhead. “I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you.”
