A Masquerade in the Moonlight(33)
And why was she thinking such things? Had she lost her senses entirely?
“We—I—that is, I don’t think we should...” Marguerite’s voice trailed off as Thomas slid his other hand onto her thigh just above her bent knee, so that she could feel the heat of him through the skirt of her riding habit. She instantly became aware of a responsive tightening between her legs, at the very heart of her being, and was amazed at the never before felt sensation. It was intriguing, to say the least.
“Well, maybe just this once...” she whispered as if to herself, although she knew he’d heard her, then closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, preparing herself for his kiss.
“No, no,” she heard Thomas say as she felt his touch on her mouth, tugging at her tightly pursed bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. Her eyes flew open and she saw that he was smiling, although he was definitely not laughing at her. “For all your bravado, for all your daring talk, you are an innocent. Just as I thought. Just as I’d hoped. Now listen, aingeal. It’s not at all like sucking lemons, this business of kissing. More like sipping the nectar of the gods. Just relax, sweet Marguerite, and I’ll teach you.”
She could feel herself trembling, and feared her teeth would begin to chatter if he didn’t kiss her and get it over with. For once he’d kissed her she’d be cured of him, relieved of her ridiculous attraction for him, no longer afraid of dreaming of him as she had done last night. A wicked dream, full of strong arms and twining legs and hungry lips and dark longings, and one that—if Marguerite were to be so silly as to divulge it to Maisie—would result in a recital of sermons that would last a full month of Sundays. She had no time for sermons, or for dreams, or for kisses. She had a mission before her, and Thomas Joseph Donovan was getting in her way.
“For pity’s sake, don’t lecture me, Donovan!” she demanded fiercely, placing her hands on his shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut once more, bewildered and slightly afraid of the bizarre sensation of heat and, yes, even moisture between her legs. “Just do it!”
It would appear he was nothing if not obedient, for a moment later she could feel his mouth slanted against hers, warm and firm and infinitely pleasurable.
Her eyes shot open, widened with reaction, for some force akin to lightning had shot through her body in that instant.
Her throat felt tight, almost as if she were choking, yet she wasn’t choking.
She was needing.
Needing his arms around her, holding her so that she wouldn’t spin off the edge of the world.
Needing him to deepen the kiss, his possession, although she had no idea what that entailed.
Needing him to touch her, mold her, meld her to him, take her inside him even as she longed to have him inside her, a part of her, a new whole made of two disparate yet perfectly matched halves.
Somehow Marguerite had opened her mouth in response to her thoughts, and Thomas plunged his tongue between her lips, rubbing its tantalizing roughness against the sensitive roof of her mouth.
It felt so good.
His hand had left her thigh, to hold her at her waist, his long fingers spanning her along her spine, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of her belly.
So very good.
His right hand was... Oh, God, his hand; his hand.
Her nipple became a budding flower, straining against the fabric of her blouse, eager to lift itself to the nourishing sun of Thomas’s roving hand, hungry for the freedom to grow and blossom and come into the fullness of its splendor.
And then it was over, and she was clinging to him even as he clung to her, their heads close together, the both of them breathing heavily, as if they, rather than their mounts, had just run a long race.
“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Thomas breathed close to her ear. “I thought... I imagined... but I never... damn.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away from him. “Little girl, you could prove to be a monstrous mass of trouble to a lonely American far from his own shores. Do you know that?”
“Not half the trouble you could be to me, Thomas Joseph Donovan,” Marguerite answered honestly, allowing her hands to slide from his shoulders, down the length of his arms, to his elbows, before finally, reluctantly, drawing away.
The pain of releasing him, of allowing the moment to pass into memory, was surely visible in her face, and would have betrayed her utterly. So she averted her head, picked up her gloves, and busied herself in easing them back onto her fingers. “I suggest you escort me back to Portman Square now, Mr. Donovan—at once, before someone comes along and my reputation gains itself another black mark in society’s copybook.”