Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(45)

“Tell me to stop,” he said, “and I’ll stop. Tell me to leave, and I’ll leave. But I would prefer you didn’t tell me to leave.”

“Kiss me.” The words were from her mouth before she had a chance to think them over.

His finger rubbed her lips, as if to capture her acquiescence. His hand stroked down the side of her face. Then his lips came down on hers.

His kiss drove all thought of elephants and points, arrogance and loneliness, from Jenny’s mind. The world receded until there was nobody present but the two of them. Until only the liquid sounds of the mating of their mouths filled her ears. His taste—tea mixed with sweet mint—enveloped her. His hands whispered down the simple muslin of her dress.

She brought her palm up against his chest, ran it down fine linen. He exhaled and his chest pressed against her fingers. And then he, too, explored her, his hands tracing her shoulder blades, down each vertebra to the small of her back. His fingers traveled up again, gilding her spine with their heat. Then her shoulders. The nape of her neck. And his mouth, always his mouth, hot on hers. She gasped, and he drank in the sound of her desire.

He pulled away from her, and she blinked dizzily. But he only moved to sit. Wood creaked as he distributed his weight. And then he pulled her atop him to straddle his thighs. Her skirt rucked up to her knees, and she let herself sink against his hard muscles. His body’s arousal pressed, hot and rigid, between her thighs. Her own excitement pooled in response.

He kissed her again, tongue and lips hot against hers.

His hands slid up her waist, sliding over her chest. Jenny gasped as he thumbed her br**sts. His fingers circled the tips, coaxing them into hardness. And then he pulled away from her mouth, and placed his lips around her nipple through the material of her dress.

A white blaze of light seared through the layers of cloth, and Jenny threw back her head. His practiced hands adjusted the bodice of her dress and pulled down her loose chemise and the thicker stays. He lifted a firm globe free. The cool air touched it for only a second before he closed his mouth around the tip. He licked it and a wave of pleasure crashed against her. He sucked it, and the wave became an ocean rising up eagerly to meet her.

Another kiss, this time on her mouth again. She drank him in, as tipsy on his taste as he appeared to be on hers. His hands came around her fiercely, and he fumbled behind her. Thank God for simple gowns. Her dress loosened. He pulled it down around her shoulders and it fell to her waist. Stays followed, and then her chemise.

“God,” he whispered, tracing the contours of her breast with one long finger. “You have no idea how many times I have fantasized about this.”

Before she could come up with an answer, he took her other breast in his mouth, and all possibility of words washed away in a hot surge of desire. Jenny clutched his shoulders, pressed herself against the hard ridge between his legs.

“You’re even more passionate than I dreamed,” he said. “The smallest touches. The way you move against me. Oh, God, Meg. Tell me your name.”

His mouth came down on her nipple again. This time he bit it lightly, and Jenny made a sound in her throat. She was drowning against him. But he showed no signs of letting her catch her breath to answer.

He lifted his head. “Tell me your name.”

Jenny, she thought. It’s Jenny Keeble. Her thoughts moved at a snail’s pace; her nails dug into his back.

“Can’t you feel it?” he whispered. “We’re going to explode together. Tell me your name. And I can be inside of you.”

Her inner muscles clenched at the thought.

He slipped his hand under her skirt and found her wet slickness waiting for him. He touched her between the legs, rubbed her where she was hot and slippery. Where she was sensitive, and those featherlight touches sent pulses of pleasure from head to toe.

“Yes,” he whispered. “God, I know you want me. Let me—”

Jenny shook her head to remind herself. “I won’t be your mistress.”

He kissed her throat. “At present, I’m not interviewing for the position. I’m here because of what you said.”

“What I said?”

“I am lonely. Damned lonely.”

She closed her hands on his shoulders, his words scalding into her.

He nodded. “You don’t like numbers. I’m trying to think what we have in common. That was what you said, right? Find what we have in common?”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to stay cold and distant. Instead, he tempted her with her deepest desires.

“Right,” he said, setting his jaw. “I can think of one thing we both enjoy.” He put his lips back around her nipple. He teased the sensitive bud back and forth. And then his hand circled down below, rubbing the sensitive flesh between her legs.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “Lord Blakely—”

He lifted his head, his eyes hooded. “Gareth,” he said.

“What?”

“My name is Gareth. Don’t call me Lord Blakely. Not now.”

He leaned his head against hers, nose to nose. Their breath mingled into sweet perfume. His hand, still trapped between her thighs, stroked gently. Jenny thrilled, half pleasure, half shame, that he touched her in that intimate way.

His eyes glowed. “Tell me your name,” he insisted.

“Nobody’s called me by my name in twelve years.”