Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(38)

She had come to him carefree and he was a cad to ravish her so. But his hunger was painful and her surrender too compelling to refuse.

She wiggled, kissing him without restraint. Her bottom pressed down against his. He groaned, certain she had no idea how she lured him on. He couldn’t stop to tell her. More fool he.

He arched her up so that he could take more of her marvelous breast into his mouth. With an avid tongue, he stroked her. She undulated, her nails now talons in his skin. With his teeth, he nipped her. She shuddered and he quaked, recognizing her feminine plea for more of this. More of him. He’d be an idiot not to give it. He’d be a devil to enjoy it. But he had to stop.

Stop now.

She deserved a bed. And he would do her justice only in a broad one.

He shut his eyes. Curled her against him. Her taut, ready body, pliant in his arms. He shouldn’t want her. But the rage to take her ran through him like molten lead. He couldn’t have her another time. Another night. Not unless he—of course—married her.

Could I?

He stared at her. She was wide-eyed, as stunned by their passion as he was.

She was his beauty, his lovely Lily, and he meant to seduce her, ravish her, enjoy her. Lily, Lily, she was his flower. Fresh, wild, charming. Lily.

He knew what had thrilled her. His taste of her had destroyed all her own reason along with his. “Darling, that should—”

She slanted a finger across his lips.

“I need more,” she whispered and thrust her hand in his hair, kissing his eyes, his cheeks and mouth with furtive need.

He stilled her, a thumb at the corner of her mouth, his tongue sliding inside to seduce hers. She was a willing partner, that rare woman who could match him in appetite. Virgin that she was, she had more enthusiasm for the sport than most. He welcomed the chance to teach her more about the pleasures of love than she anticipated.

Moaning, she pushed away. Put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and shot from his lap.

He caught her by her wrist. “Don’t go. Please.”

She stood, kneading her fingers, her eyes flicking from him to the door, a trapped animal. “That was— You must not tell.”

“I won’t.”

“Papa would skin me.”

“No, never.”

She nodded, frightened. “Yes. It’s our bargain, you see.”

He gave a shake of his head. “I don’t understand.”

“If I’m ever caught out being improper, he’d demand I wed immediately. To one he names.”

“I do doubt that.” Killian Hanniford would not throw away this lovely flower on anyone. Julian tugged her into his arms and cradled her head against his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his desire for her but loving the pride of protecting her. With a shaking hand, he petted her hair. “Sweet girl, you’re fine. You’re safe. Don’t quake. I won’t hurt you. Wouldn’t. I promised you.”

She sniffed, her face in his jacket, her words muffled. “But I didn’t.”

Confusion filled his feverish mind. “Didn’t what?”

She lifted her face and his heart dropped. She had tears in her eyes. “I didn’t promise to be good. And now look what I’ve done. I’m a reprobate.”

Oh, her torture tore at him. He put his palm to her cheek. “Lily, you’ve only kissed me.”

She shot to her feet, pivoted away and rolled a shoulder. “I’ve mauled you.”

“Darling, no,” he said with compassion for her embarrassment and pulled her lithe body nearer. “That fault is mine.”

She blushed so wildly he saw her face redden in the dim light of the kitchen.

He caught her chin and tipped her face up toward his. “I owe you the apology, Lily. And I am sorry. I should not have—”

“Please don’t. Don’t take it back.”

God, he loved her pluck. “I must. A gentleman does and I was rash.”

An impish light shone in her eyes. “The two of us, rash together?”

He ran his hand up her arm, wrapped his other arm about her waist and positioned himself flush against her. Whether from embarrassment or distress or damp clothes, she shivered. He put his lips to the crown of her head. “I enjoyed every second of our kisses.”

She groaned and shook her head, burying her face in his riding jacket. “More than.”

So much more. And worth every transgression. Even if now he must decide what those very acts implied. He planted his lips in her fragrant hair. “Dear Lily. You’ve done nothing more than I and I wouldn’t call myself a reprobate.”

She snorted.

He wished he could see her face, but he didn’t want to push his luck here. Not when he had a point to make. He resumed stroking her hair down her back. “I’ve wanted to kiss you, Lily, ever since I first saw you in bright sunlight in the Rue de la Paix. I concluded that my desire to do that was a whim, a bit of lust. I told myself my need would die if I no longer saw you, was nowhere near you to be tempted. But I’ve learned where you go, whom you visit. And I could not resist the lure. I’ve seen you. I’ve come near you, Lily, I’ve talked with you, laughed with you, ridden with you in the moonlight and my need to kiss you hasn’t died.”

She stopped shaking.

He cuddled her closer. “It’s become stronger. A living, breathing beast of a thing.”