Lady Be Reckless (Duke's Daughters #2)(42)
She accompanied the last word with a poke to his body, making him stumble back, likely from surprise since the poke wasn’t that hard.
“A bastard.” He spoke in a quiet tone, and she felt the whoosh of shame flow through her on hearing his words. Hearing the pain and guilt, yes, of his acknowledging what he was—in his own eyes, as well as Society’s.
She dropped her hand as though she had been touching a red-hot poker, twisting her hands together in front of her so she wouldn’t do anything more foolish like touch him comfortingly or, God forbid, kiss him again.
“You are not that,” she said in a furious whisper. “You should not and will not be defined by your birth. And your saying something like that just deflects from what it is that you were saying in the first place—that I was not responsible for my actions because I was not in control. Let me assure you, Mr. Wolcott—Edward—that I am entirely in control.”
“Are you?” he asked, a dangerous tone in his voice. A tone that nonetheless made her shudder in an entirely good way.
“Are you in control when I do this?” and he accompanied his words by drawing her forward back into his arms, and she couldn’t help herself, she raised her arms and wrapped her hands around his neck, stepping closer to him still.
“Or when I do this?” he said in a whisper, his breath on her cheek, his mouth lowering to hers.
“Or this?” he finished as he pressed his lips against hers in a firm, intense, and yes, completely controlling manner.
Dear lord, she might swoon. Or be discovered.
Or lose control.
She wished she were horrified at any of the ideas. But she was absolutely not.
Chapter 13
Follow your heart, or the body part that seems as though it is in the most need.
Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Being Reckless
Edward had wanted to show her how she could lose control as thoroughly as he, but it didn’t manifest itself that way.
She was probably still irritated by his words, since she kissed him ruthlessly, sliding her tongue into his mouth, holding his upper arms in a furious grip.
As though to battle him in who could make the other lose control first.
It might be me, a voice said in his head.
He stood there, returning her savage kisses with his own. Running his hand down to the small of her back, and lower still, to cup the soft curve of her arse, to pull her up against him, his cock rising up in his trousers to press against her body.
She was magnificent, and he wanted to devour her. Or let her devour him, he didn’t care which. He was egalitarian in that way; as long as complete and total ravishment happened, he was fine with it.
He drew his other hand behind her as well and yanked his gloves off, dropping them to the ground. Then he returned his hand to her curves, but brought his other hand to her neck, sliding his fingers down to touch her collarbone, her upper chest, until he was able to cup her breast in his palm.
He felt her shudder at his touch, and he wanted to grin at how reactive she was. If she hadn’t wanted this, she would have made it absolutely and totally clear—her fury at his attempt to own what had happened between them showed him that. So he didn’t hesitate, running his fingertip up at the edge of her evening gown, dipping it into her bodice to touch the warm softness of her breast. To reach two fingers in now to touch her nipple, its hard point a testament to what she was feeling now. What she wanted now.
Dear God, he wanted to fuck her. Or no, he wanted to make love to her, long, slow, and thoroughly. He wouldn’t be satisfied with a mere fuck, a moment where he could explode and have it all be done with. He wanted to savor her, run his tongue over each and every part of her, learn what made her sigh and quiver and scream his name.
She broke the kiss, leaning back to look up at him, a dazed expression in her eyes. Likely the same one was in his.
“What is happening here?” she asked. “I—my God, I’ve never,” and then she shook her head as though to clear it. His fingers still in her gown, his cock no doubt tenting his trousers. Surely she must feel it pressed against her?
“What is happening, Olivia, is something that cannot happen again.” Edward sighed and leaned his forehead against hers, removing his fingers from her bodice and his hand from her arse. Putting his hands gently at her waist. “I am leaving. We likely won’t see one another again.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “It has been a pleasure. Far more than I can, or should, say.”
He stepped back, and gestured toward the ballroom. “You should probably precede me, since I am in no state to enter polite society at the moment.” Which was a discreet way to mention his erection, and hopefully she would understand.
She darted a glance down—well, then, she did understand—and bit her lip. “Yes, of course. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, as though they had just parted from a waltz, not the most passionate and intense interlude he’d ever had. She squared her shoulders, gave him one last rueful smile, and returned to the ballroom, not once looking back at him.
Leaving him bereft, with a massive cockstand, and a heart full of ache and longing.
“We’re supposed to deliver the shifts today. Or had you forgotten?”
Pearl’s voice roused Olivia out of an uncharacteristic bout of introspection. Normally she thought about the things she was aware of, and was trying to solve.