A Taste of Desire(48)
“Good morning, Amelia.”
The way her senses responded to his polite greeting—the words tripping over every nerve end—one would have thought there’d been an intimacy in his tone. Amelia sent him a quick glance and issued a brisk nod. Two things about his appearance registered immediately, the first of which she’d have done well not to notice: His dimples made him look ridiculously appealing. Secondly, he was wearing riding clothes, which suggested he would be spending most of the day down at the stables instead of in the study with her. Certainly a comforting prospect.
“Put away the contracts,” he said, striding over to his desk. “We are going riding this morning.”
Amelia’s head snapped up to stare at him wide-eyed. He gazed across at her, a mild smile shaping his mouth.
“I would rather not,” she said in lemon-tart tones, having recovered from her bewilderment.
He chuckled. “Think of this as part of your duties, although I thought you’d enjoy the fresh air. Your father spoke many times of your skill on a horse. I rather thought you’d be eager to take up the reins again.”
That her father had anything kind to say about her was preposterous. The viscount was fabricating things as usual.
“I do not recall going riding with you listed on the duties you presented me with when I arrived.”
He laughed again, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “I believe I mentioned there would be additional tasks. Think of this as one of those.”
Amelia viewed the work on her desk and then the accursed filing drawers. This was like being asked to choose between strawberries and cream drizzled with chocolate and boiled mutton and potatoes; there was no question as to preference. “I’m hardly dressed to go riding.” She gestured at her flowered dress in a halfhearted protest.
The lucid, sane part of Thomas wished he hadn’t seen the reluctant yearning in her eyes. It added a dimension of vulnerability to her otherwise prickly disposition.
Quietly, he asked, “Will it help if I tell you this isn’t a request but an order given by the viscountess herself?”
Thomas, my dear, why don’t you take Lady Amelia riding? I can’t imagine the poor girl intended to be cooped up in the study for most of the day.
She stood, the movement as graceful as a ballerina. Apparently, a combination of his mother’s backing and the lure of the outdoors was an inducement she could not refuse.
“Well, as it’s under the viscountess’s directive, I shall go and change into something more suitable.”
The other part of him, the one that had him semi-hard watching the innocent provocation of hips and legs moving in feminine unity as she crossed the floor and exited the room, could have made a meal of her right then and greedily come back for more.
Lord, he was in trouble.
Nothing was turning out as he planned. Although her response to him was more than he’d hoped for, the ferocity of his response to her could have split the Rock of Gibraltar clean in two.
The answer to his dilemma was quite simple. Just stop kissing the damn woman as each kiss turned him inside out, upside down, the memories living on to torment him endlessly.
Stop kissing the woman. This time the command echoed in his head with more force. He’d just have to accomplish his ultimate goal without further physical intimacy. A rather novel idea and one he’d do his best to employ.
However, fifteen minutes later, Thomas began to seriously doubt whether he had the required restraint to follow through on his recent vow. The erection straining the brown wool of his riding breeches forced him to remain seated behind his desk.
She strode into the room, a mass of dark silken hair, long limbs, and pert breasts. Her attire was nothing short of scandalous. But for two slits in front and back running from hip to hem, what she was wearing resembled a skirt. And beneath the heavy, dark blue material, fitted leather breeches encased a pair of legs finer than any that had ever graced the Argyll rooms. A man had never envied a pair of breeches more than he did at that moment.
Now he understood why trousers on women were not permissible in society. Swallowing hard, he tried to keep his expression blank while lust, raw and primitive, accosted him from all sides.
“I am ready.” She had stopped just inside the room.
“Yes, most assuredly you are.” His words were an indiscernible utterance under his breath while he entertained lurid thoughts of spreading her out on his desk and taking her, driving into her body until she reached her peak, convulsing around him in a mass of quivering flesh and silken limbs. Then he’d find his own release in the tight, wet clasp of her body.