In the Arms of a Marquess(41)

“Would it matter which?” He tried to rein in his thoughts, to no avail.

“I do not know, precisely. I have not quite decided, but you do not make it easy.” Her gaze dropped to his lips.

“Thinking to trade up, were you?” he murmured, the rough quality of his voice unsurprising to him. “Crispin is only a baron, after all.”

“No. No.” A look of horror suffused her features. “You kissed me.”

“You wanted me to.” He stepped toward her. “You want me to again.”

“No. Yes.” She backed against a trellis post, a thin ray of light setting her hair aglow like the sky at sunset. “Yes, I did want you to kiss me. That does not make me a criminal. It only makes me—” She broke off, her gaze running across his chest and shoulders. “—rash.”

“It makes you a liar, shalabha.”

“Don’t call me that. I know it makes me a liar, and I am not happy with myself.”

“Would it bother him to know you are kissing other men?”

“Of course it would. And I am not kissing other men, in the plural.”

A hot finger of warning pressed at Ben’s spine, but he took another step, closing the distance between them.

“Does he care so much for you, then?”

Her lips were parted. She pulled in audible breaths, but her shoulders were back, her chin high.

“He said he does.”

“Do you return his sentiments?”

“That is none of your business.”

The heat intensified, grabbing at Ben’s gut and spreading. He flattened a palm on the post beside her head.

“Then you do not.”

“That is not what I said. What are you doing? Don’t kiss me again.” Her lashes fanned, her breasts lifting upon short inhalations to press at the edge of her gown, beautiful swells of woman. He bent his head.

“Please do not,” she whispered. “I may have changed my mind about wanting you to kiss me.”

“Walk away.”

Her gaze swam. “What?”

“You are not bound to that trellis.” Her scent filled his senses, Indian roses like he hadn’t known in years, rich and wild, moonlight in a garden and a girl in his arms he could not touch enough. “Walk away now.”

“I want to, but m-my legs—”

“Losing your courage?” He slid his hand over her hip and she exhaled a sharp sound. His palm moved along her thigh, his blood pounding. This was insanity. She belonged to another man. She was soft, slender, her gown tangling in his fingers like it had that night, driving him mad, only to find nothing beneath but her. Pure beauty. At that moment in the tropical garden with his hands on her damp, satin skin, doubt had seeped into his pleasure. But he had wanted her too much to listen to the warning.

“No.” Her whisper was barely audible.

“Then walk away.”

“I cannot.” Her tone pleaded. “My knees are too unsteady. I will fall. But you could be a gentleman.”

“I could.” He brushed his cheek against hers, her trembling beauty working through him like strong wine. “But why would I?” He touched his lips to the spot of feminine grace beneath her ear where she was softest silk.

He had not remembered poorly. She was perfect, her scent, her flavor, the intoxicating caress of her quick breaths against his skin. “You want this.” He trailed the tip of his tongue along the delicate sinew of her neck. She did not resist. Instead, she tilted her head back to allow him closer, a light sigh fluttering her throat. “And, I have been here before.” He covered her breast with his hand.

A hard breath escaped her. Feeling her was torture, the supple shape of her fitting to his palm like he was meant to have her body in his hands.

“And here,” he murmured, and slipped his thumb beneath her chemise, passing it across her nipple. She gasped and arched her shoulders as her body tightened for him, intoxicatingly rough with velvet all around. He stroked the peak with slow strokes, wanting to take it into his mouth, wanting to taste her again. Sliding his hand along her flat belly, he slipped it between her legs. “And here.”

She moaned and sank into his touch. Ben curved his palm around the back of her neck and brought their mouths together. She opened to him, her lips and thighs, inviting him to touch her as he wished. He stroked into her wet mouth and with his hand cupped her. She was soft and supple and warm, accepting his caresses. He traced his fingertips along her flesh, and through the fabric felt her grow taut; passionate woman so easily aroused.

“Ben.” She grasped his arms.

He massaged her, kissing her throat, tasting the heady flavor of her skin with lingering ease. He could remain here with his hands on her, drinking her in and knowing he was giving her pleasure, for an eternity. But he was hard. He’d been hard since he kissed her in the ballroom. And he needed more. He swept his hands to her behind, spread his fingers and dragged her against him.

It was, perhaps, a mistake. She whimpered and clutched at his coat, meeting his kisses with hot, eager forays of her tongue. Wiggling in his hold, she pressed her hips against his and moaned softly.

Ben’s vision blurred. He held her tight to him and she did not pull away. Instead she pulled him in, fitting her body to his, her thighs and belly and breasts molding to him as she gave her mouth, and he sought there what he wanted with his tongue, needing to be inside her. She gripped his shoulders then his neck and she seemed to struggle for breaths. She broke free with a gasp but he followed her, claiming her again, and she met him with a fervor that rocked him. Because it seemed so unrehearsed and genuine, like on that night long ago. Like no other woman he had known.