How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(36)

He approached and took her hand, but rather than continue on, he stopped as she swept forward, pulling him along behind her.

Clary laughed. “You have to let go of me and move on to the next lady.”

Like the first time he’d touched her, he didn’t wish to let go.

Her laughter warmed his chest, loosening the tension that had been building about this evening. He’d dreaded the moment he would face her with Jane Morgan at his side. Though he didn’t owe her an explanation for his actions, he longed to offer one.

When she’d fled after greeting them, every bit of etiquette he’d learned, everything he knew about behaving like a proper gentleman, dictated that he should remain with his guest rather than follow Clarissa.

But he had.

Jane seemed content to speak to Lady Stanhope, and he’d given in to impulse. The desire to be near Clarissa Ruthven was beginning to outweigh reason and all the careful control he’d clung to for years.

“When we come back around, there’s a silly bit where we dance toward each other and then back.” She circled around him, the train of her gown lashing his ankles, and then positioned herself in front of him. “Like this.” She gripped the edges of her gown, lifting her skirt slightly, and pranced toward him, then ducked back. Her scent hit him in a mouthwatering wave, vanilla and a profusion of flowers. “Now you come toward me.”

Gabe stepped forward and was rewarded with a little grin. Stepping away from her was much less appealing.

“Good,” she praised. “Do that twice. Then join hands with your partner and circle around with her.” She came forward and pressed her gloved hands against his bare palms. “Now we move together.” She started moving, and Gabe followed.

He twirled in a circle with her and then again, until she stumbled forward and began laughing again. Catching her around the waist, he pulled her closer than he needed to do. Closer than he should.

“Only one revolution is required, but I find twirling to be the most enjoyable part,” she said as she pressed both palms against his chest. One hand wandered to his lapel. “This is a very fine suit. Do you attend many balls?” She swept a finger down the line of buttons to the tip of his waistcoat. “Very pretty buttons too, Mr. Adamson.”

She was torturing him. Never mind the innocent look in her eyes or the laughter lightening her tone, she was a vixen. Touching him, taunting him by repeating his surname, making him ache to hear her call him—

“Gabriel?” She seemed to read something in his eyes.

He lifted a hand to her nape because he needed to feel her bare skin. Needed to thread his fingers into the silken waves bound in an elaborate pile of braids and curls. He ached to know if her hair was as soft as he imagined. Softer.

Her eyes burned with a fire he felt in his chest, kindling low in his belly. If he she kept looking at him with that hunger, he’d rebel against every damned rule, throw over every bit of etiquette, and rush headlong into a pursuit that would ruin them both.

Mercy, how he wanted her.

He hovered his lips near her forehead and whispered against her skin. “I should go. Tell me to go.”

He needed her to redraw the line that had blurred for him—what he should do and could never have when it came to her.

She stilled in his arms. A terrible empty tensing of her body, a cessation of her bright vibrating energy. “Then go, Mr. Adamson.”

“Clary . . . ” He wanted to—needed to—make her understand why whatever was between them couldn’t be.

Before he could find a single word, she lifted onto her toes, braced a hand on his shoulder, and pressed her mouth to his. A soft tentative brush of her soft, plush lips. “Gabriel,” she whispered as she edged away.

He couldn’t let her go. With his hand at the small of her back, he tugged her closer. He stared into her eyes a moment, willing her to stop him. To tell him they’d gone too far. Instead, her mouth fell open as her breath quickened, and he bent to take her mouth.

Soft. Hot. Her lips, her breath tangling with his, the little moans humming between them. Clary undid him. He deepened the kiss, pulled her tight against him, needing to feel her, taste more of her sweetness. She arched against him, slid her fingers into his hair, slid her tongue into his mouth. Still, he wanted more. He’d never get enough.

When her hand came up between them, Gabe tensed and reared back, fearing he’d gone too far. That she was pushing him away. Instead, she reached for the buttons of her glove. “I want them off,” she said huskily.

Together, they tugged and pulled at the fabric, and as soon as she was free, he pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. Higher, he laved the petal-soft flesh of her wrist and drew a delicious gasp from her.

“Clary?” A woman’s voice sounded through the closed door.

“It’s Sophia,” Clary whispered. “She’ll try the door.” She pressed a palm to his cheek, stroking along his jaw as if they had all the time in the world. “I needed to touch you with my bare hands.”

Every stroke drove him closer to the edge. Nearer to the mad impulse to lock the bloody door and escape with her through the open window. To take her someplace where it didn’t matter who she was or what he wasn’t.

“We should go before my sister bursts in.” She retrieved her gloves, collecting them into one hand while she swept the other down her gown and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll go first, and then you can follow in a moment.”