A Taste of Desire(41)
Amelia reached the study in long, angry strides. He followed her in a moment later, his mouth curved at the corners into a semblance of a smile. Leisurely, he made his way to the opposite end of the room near the fireplace, stopping at the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
Determined to maintain her composure, Amelia waited quietly as he took a deep swallow, then turned and sauntered back to where she stood, still and rigid on the edge of the Oriental area rug.
“I returned to the study at quarter to seven to find you gone.” He spoke softly without a hint of emotion.
That was what all this was about? That she hadn’t been here when he returned? The man was impossible. “And your point?”
His jaw tightened. “Am I to understand that you completed your task in that brief time?”
“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” she said, jerking her head toward the cabinet. “You will find every document filed and in order. And you can check the box. You will find it empty.”
This time, Lord Armstrong tossed his drink back with a gulp. He was either thirsty or angry. She imagined it was the latter. A sweet sense of triumph flooded her.
When he lowered the glass from his lips, it was empty. Perhaps he had been thirsty after all. Amelia quelled the smile threatening her hard-fought stoicism.
“You were to work for an hour and a half,” he stated, rotating the glass in his hand.
“Your mandate to me was to complete my task. I achieved that. What did you expect me to do after I’d finished, sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs?”
A mirthless laugh rumbled in his throat. “It appears then, I’ve greatly misjudged how effective and efficient you would be. I can see that if I’m to have you duly occupied, I’ll need to give you more work.”
The fleeting, sweet taste of victory turned acrid in her throat.
Without removing his gaze from her, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table. For what seemed like an interminable length of time, he stared at her, his eyes darkening to the color of cut emeralds of the flawless variety. “You really must learn to temper your words. Your mouth always seems to get you into trouble. Have you not learned that yet, Princess?”
Amelia swallowed at the huskiness of his tone, the sensual intent of his gaze. When his attention shifted to focus on her mouth, she took an instinctive step back. He instantly countered, coming even closer than before.
Lowering his head a fraction, he whispered, “It provokes a man in dangerous ways.”
His voice was seduction encased in velvet heat. Her gaze drifted to his mouth—his fuller lower lip. Amelia swallowed again and nervously ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
It happened so swiftly, she didn’t have a chance to blink. A light tug of his hand, and she was in his arms. There was nothing to stop peach silk from meeting sage wool; her breasts from crushing against the unyielding wall of his chest. Amelia stiffened, her heart a jackhammer in her chest as his head began an unhurried descent.
Move. Scream. Do anything except stand there like a ninny. But the languor stealing over her body turned her limbs as useless as a swimmer’s against a powerful undertow. Then his lips found hers, and the tide of feelings dragged her under.
Unlike the fumbling efforts of Lord Finley, the viscount did not try to pry her lips apart with brute force or the fervor of his passion. No, he managed that with seductive finesse, nipping then soothing her bottom lip until her lips parted with a tiny gasp. At her submission, he drove his fingers into the heavy weight of her hair, anchoring her head in his hands. Then he fit his mouth to hers.
Her knees buckled, and her hands clutched the silk lapels of his jacket. For a fleeting moment, she surfaced from the fog of passion, and thought about stopping or at the very least offering some resistance. The slow thrust of his tongue persuaded her otherwise, acting like a drug on her senses and turning her mind to mush. Amelia opened her mouth wider. She wanted more.
He let out a low groan and obliged her, his hand now at her hip pulling her closer until their lower bodies were flush. The strength of his arousal lay stiff and throbbing against her belly, the intimate contact sending a flood of warmth and embarrassing moisture to her center.
There had been times when she had overheard girls titter and engage in whispered discussions out of earshot of their chaperones. The subject of those discussions invariably involved men and such things as kissing, sometimes even fondling of an improper nature. Had they? Would they? How did it feel? Amelia would listen, silently pitying their naivety. In her experience, though limited it might have been, kissing did not have the power to move her physically or otherwise. Or so she had thought.