Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(72)

How long they stood there, his hand caressing her leg beneath her skirts, his lips nibbling the curve of her ear, she did not know. But when his hand slipped up her leg, he found the slickness of her desire. He slid across her sensitive flesh. Yes. Touch me there. Kate bit back a shaky moan; he let out a shuddering breath.

She reached up for a taste of him. Her skin ached to brush against his; her mouth found his in the dark. That long kiss transformed into a fumble, his hands against hers, racing to undo the buttons of his breeches. He leaned over her, adjusting her legs—and then he filled her, thick and hot.

She stretched around him. This wasn’t self-possession; it wasn’t any sort of possession at all. Instead, it was an admission, a deep-seated requirement, as if the circling of his hips had become as necessary as breath.

He rocked into her, slowly, steadily. The table creaked under her weight and his thrusts. He kissed her throat, up to her chin. His kisses came in time with each thrust. His breath was on her lips, as if she were his air; his tongue met hers, as if she were the only taste he desired.

He was holding himself back from release; she could feel it in the tensing muscles of his shoulder through his coat, in the exquisite control as he took her. Beads of sweat slid down his face. She could feel what waited in the burn of her own body, in the delicious coiling of pleasure in her center. She lifted her hips to his, and pleasure enveloped her, starting in her slippered toes and thundering through her as relentlessly as an autumn squall.

His thrusts came harder, filling her with sweetness as she reached for ecstasy. Her world shuddered; a great crashing noise sounded in climax.

And then he grasped her hips. He didn’t cry out, didn’t so much as let a moan escape him. The only evidence of his passing pleasure was the clutch of his hands on her.

After what he’d done to her—in the drawing room, with the hallway wide open for anyone to see, she realized—his own release seemed curiously restrained. And she realized as he pulled away, adjusting his clothing, it had been restrained. Because for all Ned’s talk of self-possession, he had been the one to possess her. He’d been the one to give her pleasure. And even in the throes of ecstasy, he’d maintained control.

Ah, she thought dazedly, I am the one who is jealous. She wanted all of him, without reservation. But that greedy urge passed as the pounding of her blood faded. For a long while they stared at each other, breathing heavily. Then he took a step—an oddly crunching step—and swore.

“Damn,” he said quietly. “Whose brilliant idea was it to decorate these tables—these lovely tables, set at such a perfect height—with vases?”

Kate glanced down in confusion. It took her a moment to understand what those tiny shards were, glinting in the dim light. That final crashing noise she had heard as she reached ecstasy had not been a product of her fevered imagination.

She couldn’t help herself. Despite the unquiet misgivings inside her, she started laughing. She pulled Ned close and buried her face in his shirt. He was sweating; so was she. It was a warm autumn evening; she was still wearing those five hated petticoats, and his heart thumped in rapid time with her own, through every layer of their clothing. His hand patted the damp hair on her head.

“Next time,” she said, “remove the petticoats. Please.”

She could feel his cheek press into a smile next to hers.

It wasn’t possession. It was still some damnable form of inequity, where she let him have all of her, and he held himself back. She could cry about it. She could accuse him of poor sportsmanship.

But what good would that do? She’d take what she could get, and fight for the rest as best she could.

She let out a long breath, exhaling her fears away. “With glass strewn underfoot, I see we have only one option.”

“Oh?”

It hurt to smile, but she did it anyway. His arm snaked around her waist.

“Have you seen how thin my slippers are?” she whispered in his ear. “With all this danger about, you’ll have to carry me to bed.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, the glass had long been swept away. But as Kate left her house, she felt a chill prickle up her neck, as if danger itself were still present. She had one silk-slippered foot upon the carriage steps, one kid-gloved hand on her footman’s shoulder.

There was a man standing on the pavement, not three yards behind her. He was dressed in the blue uniform of a metropolitan police officer; the cuffs of his jacket were frayed at the edges. He watched her, and as she halted, he walked toward her.

“Are you Mrs. Carhart?” he asked. As he spoke, he shifted his truncheon from one hand to the other. He didn’t look as if he planned to use it. His gaze dropped down her form—not in sexual interest, but in wariness.

Kate turned from the carriage that awaited her. She drew herself up to her full height—which, compared to the man who approached her, seemed nowhere near full enough. Still, in her experience, officers and servants alike were more likely to speak with respect if they knew precisely with whom they were speaking. Short as she was, the yards of lace at the hem of her gown would make the man think twice. Lace was dear; more importantly, it was a symbol that she was the sort of woman who could purchase such a thing and wear it, even on something so mundane as a morning call. Police officers did not often mix with ladies.

“Officer,” she said sternly, “I am more properly addressed as—”