A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(51)

The carriage bounced again, and she clutched his sides, gasping against his lips at the movement. “Alec,” she whispered. “Please.” No. She didn’t whisper. She begged. And how was he to deny her, especially when she lowered herself to his lap. To him.

He was wickedly hard, too-tight trousers suddenly, brutally uncomfortable.

He groaned her name, stealing her lips again as he pulled her closer, until he could feel the heat of her through his trousers and her pantaloons, and one of her hands slid up, over his chest and shoulders and into his hair again, pulling him close as her tongue met his again and again, and he ached for more of her.

Her free hand clutched one arm, moving it, directing it, sliding it up her bodice to the place where silk met beautiful, pristine skin. “Touch me,” she sighed. “Please.”

He had to stop. They had to stop. He lifted his lips, gasping for breath. “Lily. We mustn’t.”

She opened her eyes, desire warring with something far more complicated in them. He could feel her heart racing beneath his fingers, where she held his hand to her, where she burned him with her beauty. “Please, Alec,” she said, soft as silk. “Please want me.”

She made it sound like it was a choice. As though he did not ache for every inch of her. As though he did not wish to claim her in the most primal way possible and erase the memory of every man she had ever desired.

As though he were worthy of her.

His throat worked as he fought for strength, and he might have found it. Might have, if she did not take matters into her own hands. If she did not take his hand into her own, moving it until it cupped one full, glorious breast. “Please, Alec.”

He resisted the urge to move, terrified that if he did, she might continue with this mad temptation. Terrified that if he did, she might stop.

Instead, he extracted his hand from the heat of her skirts and took her face in his hands. He pulled her close, as close as possible without taking her lips, and looked deep in her eyes, the dim light of the lanterns beyond the windows casting wicked shadows across her beautiful face. “Show me,” he said.

But what he really meant was Use me.

Her eyes widened at the words, and for a moment he thought her shock would stay her. As he watched, however, the surprise turned to desire and, like a gift from God, she did as he asked.

As she was told.

Time slowed in the small space, her hand guiding his, pressing him tight against her. “Touch me here,” she said.

He did, feeling her tighten beneath his palm, even through the layers of clothing. She sighed her frustration, pushing into him, eager for more, just as he was. He took pity on her. “Do you intend to wear this dress again?”

She didn’t understand. “What?”

“The dress. Are you wedded to it?”

She shook her head. “It is awful.”

“Then let’s do right by it,” he growled, his massive hands coming to the neckline and grasping. Without hesitation, he pulled, and tore the bodice in two, freeing her to his hands and gaze.

She gasped her surprise. “You—”

He had no time for discussion. “Show me, Lily.”

And she did, setting his hand to her breast. They groaned their mutual pleasure at the contact before Alec plucked at the tight tip, using thumb and finger to tempt her until he could no longer deny himself, and he set his lips to its twin. She cried out at the touch, her fingers sliding into his hair until he suckled, lightly, just barely, and she needed more, pulling him closer, silently begging him for more.

When he gave it, reveling in the feel and taste of her, certain that if there was a heaven, it was this moment, relived again and again, she moved pressing closer to him, the glorious heat of her cradling him, hard and thick and desperate for release. He growled at the feeling, desperate to release himself, unwilling to do so—unable to trust himself to stop when necessary if he were—

And then she was moving against him, making the most glorious little noises, sighing her pleasure and groaning her desire as he worked her with tongue and lips and made promises to his body that he could never keep.

He would not take her.

He would not soil her.

She deserved better than him.

He lifted his head and looked to her, her eyes closed and frustration clear as she rocked against him, desperate for something she could not find herself. Desperate for something he could easily give her.

For something he wanted to give her.

He slid a hand beneath her skirts, the brush of his fingertips on the inside of her knee opening her eyes. Her mouth opened, and he shook his head, staying her words. “Here?” he teased, stroking there at her knee.

She shook her head. “No.”

He slid his hand up the outside of her pantaloons, loathing the fabric, the way it blocked her from his touch. But he deserved it, the denial. For what he did. For not being good enough for her. He deserved it, just as she deserved the pleasure he could give her. In this moment. Just once. Without taking his own.

“Here?” he asked again, higher on her thigh, near the crease of it that marked the beginning of her most secret place, where he wanted to be more than he wanted to draw his next breath.

She shook her head again, but this time, the word came out on a little cry. “No.”

He found the slit in the pants, and moved deeper, finding the soft curls there, stroking as she panted her desire, imagining their color—a beautiful, secret auburn. “Here, then?”