A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(27)

Yes, he told her without words. Yes. Again.

From their first meeting, he’d suspected this woman to be a temptress in a teapot, and she was proving him right with every tentative stroke of her tongue against his. Her inexperience only made the whole business sweeter. The way she clutched his shirt, chased his teasing tongue, slid her gloved finger along the edge of his unshaven jaw . . . She was inventing these small intimacies as she went, acting out of pure, untutored desire. These weren’t practiced motions, honed on other men.

They were only for him.

He deepened the kiss, keeping his rhythm steady and sure. Each time taking just a little more, delving just a fraction deeper. The same way he would make love to her.

No sooner had the thought surfaced in his mind, than he seized on it. He had to make love to her. Someday. Not today. Today, she was only learning to kiss. She wasn’t ready.

Bram, by contrast, was ready indeed. Ready, willing, and able. In a mindless, instinctive motion, he pulled her snug against his aching groin. If she could feel the abundant evidence of his arousal, she didn’t shy away. Her br**sts eased warm and soft against his chest as she leaned into the kiss.

Bending his head, he kissed her throat, her ear, losing himself in the scent of her. Her skin smelled of herbs, and she tasted . . . like a memory. A memory of a long-ago summer’s day. Warm sun. Cool, crisp water. Tall grass and a gentle breeze. Everything good and real and fresh. Even her name was a whimsical song.

“Susanna,” he whispered against her ear.

She sighed in his arms, as though she loved the sound of her name on his lips.

So he said it again, murmuring that light, stubborn melody. “Susanna. Susanna fair.” He nuzzled her earlobe, then drew it between his lips, suckling the delicate bud. Her little gasp stoked his desire.

She made him want so much. Too much. Damn, she made him yearn.

He kissed her again, taking time to savor each of her plump, lush lips before thrusting his tongue between them. This time, he delved deeper, took more. She made a mewling noise in the back of her throat, less a whimper than an erotic demand. There was urgency in her kiss now, and sweet frustration. He could taste how much she craved his touch, and the knowledge made him wild.

All this from a few simple kisses, with both of them fully clothed. Good Lord. He ran one hand down her arm and plucked at the topmost closure of her glove. They drove him mad with desire, these prim satin sheaths, with their endless stretches of buttons and arrow-straight seams. As matters stood, she could barely contain all that natural passion. What would happen when the gloves came off?

He loosed the top button with a flick of his thumb.

“Lord Rycliff,” she said hoarsely.

“Bram,” he corrected, undoing another. “After a kiss like that, you must call me Bram.”

“Bram, please . . .”

“With pleasure.” He kissed her lips again, sliding his fingers beneath the unbuttoned satin.

Her hands slid to his chest, and she pushed, hard.

“Lord Rycliff. Please.”

The desperate catch in her voice surprised him. He glanced down to find her wearing an expression of distress, her bottom lip quivering. Her eyes were downcast.

Bram immediately found himself missing them. If he’d spent so much time thinking of her eyes, it must be because in their every interaction, she’d met his gaze directly. Unapologetic and undaunted. Until now.

Damn, and here he was certain she’d been enjoying this. He wasn’t the sort to press himself on an unwilling woman.

“Susanna?” He reached to capture her chin, tilt her face to his. Her gaze was wide and pleading in the dark, and his heart gave a strange kick. Within him, lust and honor warred. He wanted her, yes. But he wanted to protect her, too. He wondered briefly if that meant he was a hypocrite.

No, he decided. It just meant he was a man.

“I . . .” Her lips parted, as though she would speak. Which would mean he needed to listen. He struggled to quell the bloodlust coursing through his veins, so he could make out her words over the mad pounding of his heart.

“My father,” she breathed.

Her father.

His gut wrenched, and he released her at once. There it was, the instant cure for his lust. Somehow, for a solid, disastrous minute, he’d managed to forget Sir Lewis Finch entirely. His late father’s good friend. A national hero. The man who held Bram’s fate in his hands. How could he have possibly forgotten?

The answer was simple. Once he’d made the decision to kiss Susanna, really kiss her . . . He simply hadn’t possessed the space in his brain or his arms or his heart to hold anything but her.

That kiss had been all-consuming. And it could not, would not happen again.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, smoothing her upswept hair. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. But it won’t happen again.”

She threw him a look, sharp as cut sapphires. “Of course it won’t. It can’t.”

“You need to stay far clear of me. Keep your distance.”

“Goodness, yes.” Her words were a fevered rush. “Plenty of distance. I’ll stay far away from you. And you keep your men separate from my ladies, do you understand?”

“Perfectly. It’s a bargain, then.”

“Good.” Her trembling fingers worked to refasten her gloves.