Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(86)
“Why would she think she could do it?” Honoria pressed.
“Because she thinks she can do anything,” Marcus said desperately. Anything to avoid telling the truth. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her he loved her, but this wasn’t the time. This wasn’t the way he wanted to do it.
She swallowed again, the movement painfully exaggerated by the stillness of the rest of her. “And why do you think it’s your job to select which men I do and do not associate with?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Why, Marcus?”
“Daniel asked me to,” he said in a tight, even voice. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He wasn’t even ashamed of not having told her. But he did not appreciate being backed into a corner.
Honoria took a long, shaky breath, then let it back out. She brought one hand to her mouth, capturing the last puff of air, and then squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment, he thought she might cry, but then he realized she was just doing what she needed to contain her emotions. Sorrow? Fury? He couldn’t tell, and for some reason this struck a stake in his heart.
He wanted to know her. He wanted to know her completely.
“Well,” she finally said, “he’s coming back shortly, so you are absolved of your responsibilities.”
“No.” The word came from him like an oath, emerging from the very core of his being.
She looked at him in impatient confusion. “What do you mean?”
He stepped forward. He wasn’t sure what he was doing. He knew only that he couldn’t stop. “I mean no. I don’t want to be absolved.”
Her lips parted.
He took another step. His heart was pounding, and something within him had gone hot, and greedy, and if there was anything in the world besides her, besides him—he did not know it.
“I want you,” he said, the words blunt, and almost harsh, but absolutely, indelibly true.
“I want you,” he said again, and he reached out and took her hand. “I want you.”
“Marcus, I—”
“I want to kiss you,” he said, and he touched one finger to her lips. “I want to hold you.” And then, because he couldn’t have kept it inside for one second longer, he said, “I burn for you.”
He took her face in his hands and he kissed her. He kissed her with everything that had been building within him, every last aching, hungry burst of desire. Since the moment he had realized he loved her, this passion had been growing within him. It had probably been there all along, just waiting for him to realize it.
He loved her.
He wanted her.
He needed her.
And he needed her now.
He’d spent his life being a perfect gentleman. He’d never been a flirt. He’d never been a rogue. He hated being the center of attention, but by God, he wanted to be the center of her attention. He wanted to do the wrong thing, the bad thing. He wanted to pull her into his arms and carry her to her bed. He wanted to peel every last inch of her clothing from her body, and then he wanted to worship her. He wanted to show her all the things he wasn’t sure he knew how to say.
“Honoria,” he said, because he could at least say her name. And maybe she’d hear what he felt in his voice.
“I . . . I . . .” She touched his cheek, her eyes moving searchingly across his face. Her lips were parted, just enough so that he could see the pink tip of her tongue darting out to moisten them.
And then he couldn’t bear it. He had to kiss her again. He needed to hold her, to feel her body pressed against his. If she’d said no, if she’d shaken her head or made any indication that she didn’t want this, he would have turned and walked out of the room.
But she didn’t. She just stared at him, her eyes wide and full of wonder, and so he pulled her forward, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her again, this time allowing himself to let go of the last thread of restraint he’d been holding so tightly.
He pulled her against him, reveling in the curves and hollows of her body. She let out a little moan—of pleasure? of desire?—and it set the flame within him ablaze.
“Honoria,” he moaned, his hands moving frantically along her back, down to the delicious curve of her bottom. He squeezed, and then he pressed, forcing the gentle softness of her belly against his arousal. She let out a little gasp of surprise at the contact, but he didn’t have it in him to pull away and explain. She was an innocent, he knew that, and she probably had no idea what it meant when his body reacted like this.
He should go more slowly, guide her through this, but he couldn’t. There were limits to a man’s control, and he had passed his the moment she’d reached out and touched his cheek.
She was soft and pliant in his embrace, her untutored mouth eagerly returning his kisses, and he swept her up into his arms, carrying her swiftly to the bed. He laid her down with as much tenderness as he could manage, and then, still fully clothed, he came down atop her, nearly exploding at the sensation of her body beneath his.
Her gown had those little puffed sleeves that ladies seemed to prefer, and Marcus soon found that they settled against her skin rather loosely when she was lying down. His fingers found the edge and slid underneath, baring one of her milky shoulders.
With a ragged breath he drew back and looked down at her. “Honoria,” he said, and if he hadn’t been wound so tightly, he might have laughed. Her name was the only sound he seemed to be able to make.