“Oh, God, yes.” He bent toward her then pulled back again. “But this is purely by your request. I’ll stop whenever you say.” He leaned close again. “Remember what I said about the prime minister,” he whispered. “You can trust me.”
Slowly, he lifted one hand, and she could not help but pull back.
“I’m going to cup the back of your head.” His voice was level, and his eyes never left hers. “You’ll like it. In fact, it would be nice if you did the same.” He moved slowly, sliding his fingers through her hair. “Touch me,” he murmured.
She cupped the back of his neck. The action drew her closer to him so that her body was almost flush against his. It was an awkward and heady feeling, but not a wholly unpleasant one. And she decided that she actually liked having her hand on the back of his neck. It gave her some power and some control over what he did.
Or at least the appearance of it.
Then Valentine slid his other hand about her waist, and the blood began to thrum in her ears again. She looked up at him and found she was lost in his mahogany eyes.
Three, eight, seventeen . . .
And then he bent and put his mouth on hers. She tensed at first, expecting an assault, but his mouth was cool and dry, as she’d remembered it from last night.
He moved his lips against hers, lightly at first and then with more pressure. He almost seemed to be nibbling at her lips, and the thought made her smile. But she wanted so much more. She wanted to feel again what she’d felt last night.
To her pleasure, the light pressure of his lips increased, and she felt the flick of his tongue. It was a jolt, and she almost stepped back, but he held her close with the hand on her back. Still, she could not help but tense up, and that was when the hand on the back of her neck began to do its work. He kneaded and worked his fingers into her skin until she relaxed again.
By then, she knew what he wanted. He wanted her to open her mouth, and she was surprised to find that she wanted the same. She was not disappointed at what she felt. His lips slanted over hers, warm and moist and making her feel sensations even more mesmerizing than she had felt last night. Her whole body seemed to come alive against his, and she couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. She pulled his head down farther with the hand on the back of his neck and ran her other hand along his back.
She thought she heard him groan quietly, but then he flicked his tongue into her mouth, and she was not sure of anything. Heat flooded through her. She knew her face was flaming, and she knew that if anyone ever saw her doing this, she would die of mortal shame. And yet she did not stop him. With each moment, the kiss grew more into a caress, his tongue probing and searching and spinning her to new heights of sensation.
His touch and his kiss sent heat flooding through her. Her hands tingled with it. Her breasts ached with it, and her stomach clenched. And then the heat reached that spot between her legs, and she felt her thighs become wet. She had the oddest sensation, and she wanted to rub herself. Even more, she wanted him to touch her there.
He’d withdrawn his tongue now, but their mouths were still fused. The sensation between her legs was growing, making her restless and excited, and when he withdrew his tongue she followed him. With a thrill of adventure, she entered his mouth. He met her there, kissing her harder, pulling her closer, showing her what to do and how.
And then, as though he knew what she was feeling, he parted her legs with his own and slid a leg between her thighs. He kept one hand on her back and the other on her neck, still kneading away her inhibitions, but she felt his thigh press against her. At first the touch was light and tentative, but she felt a jolt when his warm body caressed that inner part of her, even through her skirts and petticoats.
His touch grew more insistent. He rubbed against her again and again, the strokes of his tongue mimicking the thrusts of his thigh.
And Catherine could not take it anymore. She broke the kiss and gasped. But the gasp came out sounding much more like a moan, and not the kind of moan a lady like her would make. She sounded like a common whore.
It was all too much, and she released him and pushed her hand against his chest. Reluctantly, he allowed her to go. She stumbled back, her hand to her throat, and stared at him.
Unbelievably enough, he looked as flushed and affected as she. His hair was mussed, the dark waves falling over his forehead, his eyes were bright, and he breathed in rapid bursts that matched her own gulps.
“God, I want you,” he said on a gasp. “Please.”
She stared at this man, the only man she’d ever known who asked before taking. The only man she’d ever known who told her she was worth something, who told her she deserved more. More than anything, she wanted to yield to him. But again, if she submitted, if she let him sweep her away, allowed him to make her believe she meant more to him than she did, and then he took it all away . . . what then?
She took another step back. Her head was spinning, and she knew she needed time to think. She needed so much time to think these days.
“It’s still your decision,” he said, straightening. “I won’t touch you unless you allow it. But now you know how it can be. God, Catie, please trust me.”
She turned and fled to her room. She threw herself on their bed, quick to bury her head in the counterpane so that she could hide the blush from her face.
She took deep, soothing breaths until her heart slowed and she was able to count to a hundred. And then she opened her eyes and stared at the green-and-yellow-papered walls.
She could still feel the pulse beating between her legs, still feel the moist ache that begged to be quelled. Hand trembling, she put her fingers there and pressed against her flesh, hoping to staunch the feelings, but they only intensified, and the image of Valentine, his hair disheveled and his eyes hot and full of desire for her, made her want him more.
Quickly, she withdrew her hand and tried to think of banal topics: the weather, bread pudding, horses. But there again she thought of Valentine. He’d allowed her the pick of the best horse. He’d shown her his home, and she could still remember the way he’d beamed and the pride in his face when they’d ridden about the property. And then last night, when she’d been frightened, he’d held her and soothed her.
She shook her head, but she could not deny the inevitable. She had married a good man. He was nothing like her father. Quint Childers was a good man.
With a sigh, Catherine flipped onto her stomach. And so what?
That didn’t mean she had to fall in love with him. That didn’t mean she had to trust him.
