Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(37)

She slapped his hands away. “Stop that.”

“You do it then. I’ll not have you die of cold at the risk of a layer of clothing.”

She clutched her stock to her throat. And true, it was wet, but she had few choices here. “It’s not just any layer.”

Confusion over took his brow. “What?”

“Can you please find me another coat?”

“I will if you promise to begin to unbutton that now.”

She tsked. “Hard bargainer.”

He stood. “I’ll be back with brandy and when I do, you’ll have that jacket off.”

“Fine, fine.” Fretting over that, she undid her last two buttons. Beneath it, the cold cotton of her blouse was damp. Under that, her skin was ablaze with the delicious nature of her predicament. But what Julian didn’t know was a good thing. “Hurry, please.”

He left her, ran up the steps and away. In the silent house, she marveled that no one had yet heard them. How many servants did he have? And were they all deaf?

She shrugged out of her jacket, covering her wet blouse and her beading nipples with the ends of a towel. Shivering in the damp cotton and trying to focus on how soon she’d be warm didn’t work.

Julian returned within minutes, a large coat in one hand and a man’s shirt—his?—in the other.

“I can’t wear that.” She had admired his form, his broad chest, his muscular build. He was fit, firm, a marvelous example of manhood, but she was more than adequately endowed. And his shirt, tailored as it was, would not adequately cover her attributes.

“Why not?” He held it up. “Perfectly fine linen. Clean.”

She ground her teeth. “It won’t fit.”

“Of course, it will.” He quirked a brow. “Oh. Um. Won’t it?”

He had this odd expression on his face which by infinite degrees turned to recognition and then, he laughed.

She tapped her foot on the stone floor. “You’re not helping, dear sir.”

Still chuckling, he stepped toward her and put his hands around her waist to draw her to her feet. “I see that. I am sorry.”

She couldn’t help but cuff him. “Take me back.”

“Wet?”

“As I am, yes! Now.” She took his hand and marched them both toward the window.

But lightning streaked the sky and a loud boom shook the house.

She lurched backward.

Against his all too solid chest.

He embraced her, one hand in her hair, one cupped her nape and the lure of his warmth was irresistible. She sank against him, reveling in his support. He was assurance and beneath his riding pants, he was aroused.

She didn’t want to move or even breathe. Could he find her attractive? Still? Even though she’d told him at the opera to ignore her? He certainly did find her company appealing. Much as she’d always declared she’d never tolerate a man as demanding as her father, she liked a man with a mind of his own. This man.

“I like you,” she told him astonishing herself for saying what she felt for him.

He trailed his fingers up into her hairline and turned her head toward him. “Do you?” he asked, his voice wistful. “God knows I like you.”

Her heart did a little jig. “Now, I know, too.”

“We are neither of us very clever.”

“But honest.”

“Lily,” he said her name, a plea more breath than sound. “Lily, darling. Shall we be more than honest?”

“Oh, Julian.” In the dim light, she could make out the fire in his beguiling eyes. To wait any longer to taste him would be a waste. Casting caution to the wind, she swung totally into his embrace and pushed up on her toes. She slid her arms around his shoulders, the towel falling to the floor, and with only hot urgency between them, she said, “Yes, let’s be.”



He’d be damned for this tomorrow. But tonight, she wanted him and he had this ravenous need to possess her before she decided she was wrong.

He crushed her against him. Never had he wanted any woman’s lips on his more than hers. Never had he hungered for anyone with more thoughtless urgency. And against his chest, he felt the wealth of her breasts. Unbound as they were, her bosom flattened against him. Her nipples went rigid and he forced back a groan. She’d come to him very freely. Natural. Trusting.

Was he as trustworthy as she presumed? With any other woman, that answer would have been no. With any other woman, he would have been greedy, opportunistic. With any other woman—any woman whom he would meet in the dark for an illicit rendezvous—he would not hesitate to capitalize on her lack of virtue. With this one, he would not dare to offend her. More, he couldn’t disappoint her—or himself.

He cupped her cheek. He brushed her lips with his own. He held her tenderly and then he took her. All she offered. All she was.

Her lips. Plush, soft and needy. Answering him with a new kiss. This one more urgent, desperate.

He fell backward against the wall, bracing himself to hold her and not let her go. He needed one kiss, gentle, beseeching. And another, that turned fierce, then raw.

He caught her up to pull her with him to a chair. He had to sit before his knees gave way. How he found one, he’d no idea. He only knew she was in his lap and he had his hands full of her, her sculpted back, her slim shoulders, her firm breasts. Her bountiful breasts that he knew for certain stood tall and plump without aid of any corset. Against the wet cloth, he thumbed her pinpoint nipples. She let her head loll back and he bent, mad to please her, and suck one taut areola, soft cloth and fragrant flesh, into his mouth. With a cry, she dug her nails into his shoulders as he bit her nipple and moved to lave the other.