Unraveled (Turner #3)(32)

“What is it you’re supposed to do?” he asked.

“Kiss you. Kiss you and make it better.”

“No.” His voice rang hoarse. “I don’t want that.”

She drew back.

“I want you to kiss me and make it worse.”

A little gasp escaped her. He touched his hand to the point of her chin, tilted her face up to his. Her skin was warm against his fingers, and she flushed under his touch. She looked utterly dazzled. Dangerous, that look, as if he’d hung the stars for her.

But he wanted to believe he could, so he kissed her.

As predicted, it made everything worse. Her kiss heightened the hunger for company that he’d long ignored. Her lips were slack in surprise at first, but then she came to life under him, kissing him back. That sparked a fierce, possessive desire. He wanted her. That want had the strength of years of loneliness behind it.

She reached up and twined her hands around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down to her. She opened under his kiss, and then it was not just the softness of her lips, but that of her mouth, hot, melding with his. Their tongues touched; she made a little noise in the back of her throat—something fierce and needy.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. She came easily, her hands sliding down his frame. She was so warm, so present, that she drove away all thoughts of the cold and distant past.

There was nothing but her—her kiss, her caress. Her breathy gasp of pleasure.

He courted that now, slowing the kiss so that he could slide his fingers up her waist, up the fabric of her dress to cup her breast. It was small in his hand, small but round and perfectly formed. Her gown fastened in the front; he undid a button. Then another. She ran her hands along his chest, urging him on. He, in turn, loosened the laces of her stays, and slipped his thumb under the fabric.

She moaned when he touched her nipple—not loud, but deep in her throat, a noise halfway to a purr that drove him mad. God, he wanted her. Wanted to wring more sounds from her, wanted to lose himself in her pleasure—and his own. He slid her loosened stays down and captured the pebbled tip of her breast between his lips.

She was sensitive—so damned sensitive and responsive to his touch. Her whole body arched against his. Her hand clenched around his arm.

He wanted to take her, to have her—not just her body, but her warmth, her smile, her presumptuous clever wit. He ran his other hand up her leg, sliding her skirts up to bare her knees.

The skin of her thighs was impossibly perfect—not just soft, but taut and supple. He slid his hand up her leg, so close…

She laid her hand over his. “No,” she said distinctly.

He froze. He was inches from the juncture of her legs. He was burning for her. He was rock hard and ready; she was interested, too. His breath feathered against her nipple, erect in obvious arousal. “No?” he echoed in disbelief.

She struggled away from him and adjusted her stays. Her hands were unsteady, and tangled in the laces. “No,” she repeated. “I can’t do that.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I have one child I can’t manage. I hardly need another.”

It was on his tongue to make promises to her—that he’d keep her, that he’d shoulder any burden that she might encounter. Or he might have simply leaned forward and taken her breast in his mouth again. He knew the sound of an objection that could be easily overridden with a bit of judicious action. It would be the easiest thing in the world to seduce her.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said earnestly. “But despite any appearances to the contrary, I’m not that kind of girl.”

He took the edges of her corset in his hands and looked into her eyes.

What a damned joy it would be for her—a quick tumble with him. After he’d slaked himself on her warmth, her generosity, she would turn to him, expecting what he could never give. He wanted to rip her stays off altogether, to slide against her bare skin.

But there was no point in wallowing in what he wouldn’t have. Instead, he pulled his hands away. “Lucky for you,” he said softly. “I’m not that kind of man.”

Nothing to do for it but tidy up her gown.

“I did want that kiss,” she said earnestly. “It was a lovely kiss.”

He tucked the ends of her laces in, before meeting her eyes. “Then here’s another one.”

This one was bitter in its sweetness. If the soft brush of her lips had driven away his loneliness before, her kiss now served only to remind him that this, too, was coming to an end. This kiss wasn’t companionship or warmth. It didn’t even encompass lust. It was farewell, and when it ended he’d be alone once more.

He pulled away before it could become anything else.

“Stay safe,” he told her. “Eat well. I’ll walk you back—and I’ll hear no argument from you.”

“You’ll take me to the Bristol Bridge,” she corrected. “It’s dark. I won’t be safe in your half of the city, but you’d not be safe in mine.”

He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers.

“You won’t see me in your hearing room again,” she murmured. “I…you’re right. You and Jeremy both. I have to walk away from that. And Robbie is old enough to make his own decisions.”

“If I did see you again,” he said, “I’d not render judgment. I believe I’ve misplaced my impartiality in regard to you.”