“You’ll not give up the topic?”
He grinned. “The book speaks of delight, Gweny. And joy. Both must be present in coupling. Part of the process and an end result.”
She sighed, wandering farther down the row away from him, her hips swaying with each step. “Sometimes the physical is less about joy and more about… forgetting.”
“Is that what you need right now? To forget?” His pulse pounded hard against his wrists.
She peeked over her shoulder at him. “I need for us to concentrate on our tasks. You look through that shelf, and I’ll look through this one. See if we’ve missed anything.” She turned her back to him and perused the titles.
He did not. He watched her. She said she did not want a distraction, but she was still wound tight from yesterday, and he would do whatever he must to wipe yesterday’s fear from her mind.
He waited until she’d opened a book, absorbed herself in the ink and paper. Her shoulders had relaxed, and she tilted her head just slightly to the side so he could see her pert chin, its soft underside. Yellow curls had escaped the coiled braid atop her head, and he wanted to tug one then tug the entire braid loose, undo it, undoher. Dusty light flooded the windows, but the shadows, the shelves, hid them, hid the likely feral, hungry look on his face.
He stepped nearer her.
She noticed, and her shoulders pulled down as her back and neck lengthened. Her finger caressed a line of ink as she read.
Another step and his front pressed to her back.
She gasped, snapped the book shut, and whirled around.
He braced a hand above her on a high shelf, and it creaked beneath his weight.
Her hands fluttered first at his chest, as if she would push him away, and then at hers, then finally dropped to press against his belly. She looked up at him, her storm-blue eyes glittering with a question she did not let pass her lips.
He dipped to the side of her head and whispered, “During my studies of desire, I heard it said that it takes eight men to satisfy a woman with beautiful eyes. It must take twelve to satisfy you.”
A breathy laugh. Her fingers against his belly turning into feathers and fluttering with the silk of his waistcoat. But not pushing him away.
She turned her head slightly, the smallest of movements, until her lips found his ear. “No. It only takes one.” Her body melted into his, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to haul her close, to keep her standing. “Jackson.” His name a heaven-sent breath. “I shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t.”
“Then don’t.” A challenge. He continued doing what they shouldn’t, though oh-so gently, to let her escape if she truly wished to.
She gripped at his clothes, pulling him closer. “But you’ve turned me into a flame. That book. I should never have read it. Do you think I could sleep? You cad. After I finished the book, I spent all night painting.”
“Scenes from its pages?”
“Painting you. I am determined to stay away from you, but you never leave me, even when we are apart. Infuriating. Arousing.”
Hell and heaven in her words.
She placed her nose near his cravat and breathed deeply. “You’ve barely touched me and… I’m so very close to falling apart. What could it hurt? Once more, though I fear it will unravel me entirely. But I want it.”
“Want what, Gwendolyn?” his voice rasped, hoarse with need.
“It means nothing. Changes nothing.”
“Want. What?”
She sighed. “A kiss.”
So he kissed her, a hard meeting of lips and tongue.
And chaos broke loose.
The door burst open, wood slamming against wood, and Jackson and Gwendolyn ripped apart from one another.
“Where are you?” Nicholas called out.
