The realization should have made him pull back. Instead, he deepened the kiss while walking her backward until the back of her legs hit the desk. She gasped as he lifted her onto it.
“Owen…”
“Tell me to stop.” His lips found her throat and he kissed the spot where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. “Tell me this is wrong.”
“I can’t.” She tipped her head back, giving him better access. “I can’t think when you touch me.”
“Good.” He nipped her collarbone and satisfaction flooded through him when she shivered. “I’m tired of thinking. Tired of being careful. Tired of pretending I don’t want you every moment of every day.”
Her hands tangled in his hair and she tugged hard enough to make him groan. “Then stop pretending.”
It was all the permission he needed.
His mouth found hers again in a hungry and demanding way. She met him kiss for kiss. Her passion matched his in ways that made his blood burn.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew they should stop. They were in Morrison’s library, for God’s sake. Anyone could walk in. The ball was in full swing just rooms away and their absence was likely noticed already.
But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not with Iris warm and willing in his arms, not with the soft sounds she made against his mouth, the ones that made his pulse thrum and his self-control unravel. Not when she looked at him like he was something rare and worth wanting.
“We should go back,” she murmured against his lips, though her hands didn’t release him.
“We should,” he agreed, and kissed her again before he could think better of it.
His mouth lingered longer this time. He drew her bottom lip between his gently, then trailed kisses along her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. She gasped, barely audible, and he felt it in his chest like a spark catching tinder.
“You taste like champagne,” he whispered roughly.
A breathless laugh escaped her, but it caught in her throat when he lowered his lips to her neck and he brushed the sensitive skin with maddening care. She tilted her head to give him more access as her fingers tightened on his shoulders.
He followed the curve of her neck to her collarbone, then lower still, kissing the edge where silk gave way to skin. Just the barest hint of cleavage peeked above her bodice, and he traced the swell with his lips hungrily.
Her breath hitched, and one of her hands slid into his hair. “Owen…”
“I know,” he said, not pulling back. “But I’ve wanted to do it since the first time you looked at me like this.”
“People will talk,” she whispered, but she wasn’t stopping him.
“Let them,” Owen said. His voice was thick with want.
His hands slid down her waist deliberately and possessively. He gathered her silk skirts with aching slowness. The fabric rustled as it rose. Then, his fingers slipped beneath, navigating the layers until he found her calf. He stroked upward and over her stocking. The silk felt cool beneath his palm.
She stiffened for a breathless moment when he reached the bare skin above her garter.
“There,” he murmured into her ear. “So soft. So warm.”
Her thigh quivered beneath his touch.
“Owen…” Her voice was trembling, caught between fear and aching need.
“If you want me to stop,” he said, his lips brushing her earlobe, “say so.”
But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned into him. His other hand slid to the small of her back, anchoring her to him as his mouth moved to her collarbone, savoring each inch of her skin.
“I think about you like this at night,” he whispered. “Yet every night my hand is wrapped around nothing, aching for what’s mine.”
Her breath shuddered, ruffling his hair.
The room disappeared. The library, the ball, the danger of discovery—it all fell away.
