No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(39)

Julia closed her eyes. She was so warm that if he touched her body, she feared she might spark and flare like a newly lit candle. But his hand stopped at the vee of her robe.

“I looked a mess,” she whispered.

“You looked irresistible.” His mouth lowered toward hers, and she knew he would kiss her. She’d been kissed before, and she could easily avoid this kiss by turning her head and offering her cheek instead. Wraxall gave her plenty of time to avoid the kiss, taking his time and making his intention clear.

Julia knew she should turn her head. Better yet, she should shove him back and chastise him for daring to take such liberties. That was exactly what she had planned to do if a man ever attempted to kiss her again.

But for some reason, she could not turn her head. She could not make her legs run away. She could do nothing but look into his bluer-than-blue eyes and hold her breath.

When his mouth finally met hers, it was with a soft, tentative brush. Oh, there would be no denying she had known his intentions or not wanted his kisses. He gave her every opportunity to refuse.

“Slag will never touch you like this,” he murmured.

“No,” she agreed. Her lips tingled as he swept his mouth over hers, then pressed more firmly. One of his hands slid down the wall and came to rest on her waist. He made a sound low in his throat as his hand touched the silky material of her robe, and then he cupped her and pulled her flush against him.

“Or like this.”

Julia gasped as her body pressed against his hard lines. She had known he was not a man who’d spent his life in idleness, but now she could feel the evidence of his exertions in every hard ridge and plane of his muscled torso.

His mouth teased hers as he explored her lips with his. He sucked and nipped and finally his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, coaxing them open. Julia tried to pull back. She had been kissed, but this was more than kissing. This was far too intimate.

“Kiss me back,” he murmured, his warm breath tickling her cheek. “Show me what you like. What Slag will never taste.”

She didn’t know what she liked. No man had ever asked, and she’d not thought it mattered. She did like the press of his lips on hers, not rough and demanding but coaxing. His question both thrilled and terrified her. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Then let me show you what I have been wanting to do for two days.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“No. You shouldn’t.” His voice was black velvet caressing her as surely as the hand on her lower back made soothing circles, branding her through the thin layers of her robe and night rail. “You really shouldn’t.”

And that was all it took. Her father had always called her obstinate and headstrong in part because her first reaction when someone told her no was to raise her chin and do whatever it was she’d been ordered not to do anyway.

She might be three and twenty now, no longer a child, but she still could not abide being told what she should and should not do. Something defiant and rebellious took her over when she heard those words. Instead of doing what she had planned—pushing him away—she brought her hand up from where she’d clenched it at her side and fisted it in the hair at the nape of his neck.

His hair was surprisingly soft and silky, and she twined it around one finger, pulling his head down and closer to hers. Then she kissed him back. First she simply pressed her lips to his. He made no objection, though she’d felt him stiffen slightly, as though in surprise. He didn’t even move to kiss her back. He made no move at all, except that after her lips joined his and they stood there, joined, his hand curled against her back.

The pleasure of that simple movement rushed through her, and she wanted more. She wanted to be closer to him. She wanted both his arms around her, holding her, touching her.

Her mouth moved against his and then parted slowly. He seemed to hold his breath until she screwed up her courage and touched his lip with the tip of her tongue.

And then everything seemed to happen far too quickly.





Ten


Neil had held himself so still and so tightly he was all but vibrating. When the woman had slid her hand into his hair, tickling the back of his neck, he had almost pounced on her. And then when she’d kissed him, he’d wanted to devour her. He’d held himself in check, not wanting to scare her, until she’d darted that small pink tongue out and slicked it against him.

That was when he lost all control. No man could have controlled himself under those circumstances and with that sort of temptation. He held her ripe body in his arms, nothing but thin layers of silk and lace—and God, he knew what that lace looked like—between them. She was soft and warm, and she smelled sweet and clean. Perhaps if he buried himself in her, he’d forget the stench of cannon smoke and burning flesh.

He lifted her off her feet and pressed her hard against the wall as his mouth came down to claim hers. He’d been playing with her before, giving her a chance to flee, giving her a taste of danger, but he was through with games. He took her mouth as a parched man takes his first sips of honeyed water. His mouth all but invaded hers, not softly or lovingly but with a need that was almost more than Neil could control.

How long since he’d felt such a need for a woman? Had he ever felt this ferocity of need? He slanted his lips over hers, invading her mouth with his tongue. He’d been half-afraid she’d fight him, but her tongue lashed his right back. Her lips met his with an ardor that mirrored his own. Her grip on his hair was so tight it hurt, but he welcomed the pain. It kept him centered, kept him from losing himself completely.