And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(94)

“Now?” she glanced frantically at the door.

“Yes, now.”

“I really don’t think this is a good time.”

“I disagree,” he said. Then Lord Henry Arthur George Baldwin Seldon proved he was every inch the grandson of the seventh duke.

Daphne didn’t even have a chance to protest.

Not that she would have.

When Lord Henry’s lips met hers, she surrendered. To every bit of good sense, to any hope of a future that wasn’t marked in ruin.

For here he was, his lips hard and demanding. She opened up to him, and his tongue danced and slid over hers, enticing her to come along on this passionate exploration.

How could she deny him?

Her shawl fell to the floor. Whether she’d shrugged it off or he’d brushed it aside, she didn’t know, she didn’t care, for his fingers were sliding along the edge of her bodice, over her collarbone, twining into her hair and, finding the pins there, plucking them free until her hair tumbled down.

As it cascaded down, he moaned—growled, really—a sound both greedy and delirious. It was filled with desire and passion entwined in a deep earthy need that vibrated through her limbs, as if he’d touched her with his longing.

She answered back, pressing herself against him, her breasts against his chest, her hips swaying, a feminine reply that said she’d heard his call.

And still he kissed her. Long, hard, demanding.

Devouring her.

He held her fast, up against him, and there was no doubt the entire man was in the same state as his kiss.

Long. Hard. Demanding.

A sigh, a moan rose up from her depths, her hips brushing his as she drew even closer, as a desire to be right up against him, to draw him inside her, shivered through her.

His hands roamed over her, cupping her breasts, his thumb rolling over her nipple. It tightened into a bud beneath the muslin of her gown, and then the fabric was teased from her shoulders, leaving her bare to his touch.

Daphne shivered, but where the cool air touched her skin, Lord Henry’s lips followed.

She arched as his hot breath, his tongue washed over her shoulder, leaving a trail of desire in its wake. Then his head dipped lower, while his hand cupped her breast and brought it up for him to explore, to kiss, and then taking her nipple into his mouth, he sucked on it—leaving her gasping for air.

However could such a thing feel so good?

Oh, but it did, leaving her rising up on her tiptoes and clinging to his shoulders as he suckled one side and then the other, until even her breath was shuddering, coming in and out in ragged gasps.

He paused for a moment, and Daphne opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and found him smiling at her.

Oh, what a smile. Full of dark, smoky passions. Full of possession. Like all Seldons, he had the coloring of a lion—that tawny hair, those dark eyes—and right now he looked every inch the great beast, hungry and ready to claim his stake.

Without asking, without a word, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, kissing her as he went. When they came to the wide, deep gold brocade settee that sat in one of the shadowed corners, he laid her down and followed quickly, covering her with his body.

Daphne reached for him, her arms winding around his neck, her lips seeking his, her fingers twining in his hair, holding him, so she could find her way right back to that delicious, trembling state.

His body rocked against hers, as if seeking solace, seeking entry.

Between her legs, her body was tight and trembling, coiled with longing, and every time he slid against her, her insides quaked.

Yes. Yes. Please!

And so when she felt his hand draw her skirt up, a momentary shiver of panic ran through her.

Whatever was he going to do?

His fingers brushed over her small clothes, then slipped inside, brushing over the curls at her apex, then teasing past the folds and finding the taut nub beneath.

Daphne arched against his hand, her mouth opening in a wide O even as his fingers stroked her, beguiled her, sliding deeper, and then he slid a finger inside her—right into her, filling her, stretching her, drawing the wetness from her and sliding it back over her.

Back and forth he moved inside her, out, even as he kissed her, his tongue sliding over hers, sucking her into him, breathing her out. Her bare nipples rubbed against his shirt.

When the devil had he taken off his jacket? His waistcoat? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t care. For the linen of his shirt brushed over the sensitive points, only adding to the building fires inside her. It was all building so quickly, his touch—insistent and teasing, drawing her upward. His kiss, demanding and insistent.