This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(28)

“Does that door behind you lock, as well?”

She shook her head.

“Pity.” He lifted a chair off the floor and strode past her.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m rearranging your furniture.” He tilted the chair at an angle and wedged it under the door handle.

“There. This time we shan’t be bothered by intruding little brothers.” He turned to her. She was still seated on her stool. Her toes curled in her slippers as he walked forward. He towered before her. Then he bent and picked her up. His arms around her were warm and strong.

The doors were barred, so nobody could save her. For that matter, with the books piled in front of the one tiny window, nobody could see her. Thank God. She melted into his arms.

He straightened. But she had only a few bare seconds of his warm embrace before he set her on the desk. He did not move away from her. Her thighs parted, and he stepped between her legs. She was still looking into his eyes. He rested his forehead against hers, and she shut her eyes.

“I collect,” William said, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, “that you want me to give your ring back.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but all that came from her vocal cords was a pointless squeak. Instead she nodded.

“You can’t have it.” His eyes bored into her. His fingers whispered down the line of her jaw, to rest against her chin. He tipped her head back.

“You can’t have it,” he repeated, “unless you wear it for me.”

She nodded again.

“I also collect,” he said, “that when I came in, I should have said something rather more like—”

He leaned forward.

“Like?” she prodded.

His lips touched hers.

He tasted like cinnamon and cloves, like the Christmas she no longer dreaded facing. His lips roamed over hers, tasting, testing. His hands slid from her jaw down to her waist. And she was touching him, his shoulders pulling the hard length of his body against hers. She was catching fire, yearning to consume him. Her hands ran through his silky hair, pulling his head toward hers. But however intimate the touch of his tongue against hers, however insistent the press of his hard erection through the layers of her skirts, his hands remained virtuously clasped on her waist.

He pulled away from her. She’d rearranged his hair into a tangled and adorable mess.

“Well,” he murmured, smiling at her.

“Mr. William Q. White,” Lavinia said, “I should like to know your intentions.”

“I intend to love you as you deserve.”

“That is a good start. I should like to be loved more, however.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, a sweet touch of his lips, when she wanted heat.

“But you asked for my intentions. You must know I intend to ask your father’s permission to call the banns.”

Close to him as she was, his hands still on her waist, she felt a subtle tension fill his body, as if he were wary of her response. As if she had not asked him to marry her already.

Lavinia clucked and shook her head. That wariness grew, and he pulled away from her ever so subtly. She reached up to touch his cheek. His skin was rough with evening stubble. “Do not tell me you barred the door just so that you could steal a mere kiss. Really, William. Is that all?”

A slow smile spread across his face. His hands pressed against her waist and then slid lower, the heat of his palms burning into her hips.

“Is that all?” he echoed. “No, damn it.” His hands inched down to her thighs. “There’s more. There’s much more.”

And then his lips fell on hers again. This time, he exercised no restraint. His body pressed hers. His hands pulled her against him. He kissed down her neck; she threw back her head and let his tongue trail fire along her skin. She felt his warm lips trace her collarbone. He breathed heat against the neckline of her dress. And then he was rearranging her bodice, tugging, persuading, until he caught her breast in his mouth.

A sharp swirl of excitement filled her. But his touch didn’t satisfy her. Instead, it only whetted her hunger. His other hand was on her ankle now, lifting her legs to one side, pushing her skirts up. His fingers fluttered against her damp sex.

Pleasure twined with want.

She desired—she needed—she required. And what she needed she couldn’t have said, except more, damn it, more. But he knew. His body was hard against hers. He fumbled with his breeches—and then he filled her, hard and thick and long.

His hands braced against the desk; her legs wrapped around his waist. And then she could think of nothing but the heat of his skin against hers, the thrust of his body inside hers, his hand on her breast, his lips on her mouth. And then even these thoughts were ripped away from her as she gave herself up to him.

Afterward, her body still throbbing with delicious satiety, his hair slightly damp and spiking from his exertions, he held her close. His breath was warm against her cheek.

“I am,” he said in her ear, “completely, utterly and devotedly yours. If you will have me.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest. “I suppose I shall.” His arms were around her shoulders now, his hands caressing her. She inhaled. He smelled of starch, of salt, and of…of burning cloves?

Lavinia pulled back and sniffed the air in puzzlement. A complex, bitter scent had wound its way into the room. It had just the faintest hint of sulfur to it. But the disturbing smell did not waft from William. Instead, it was coming from upstairs.