“From climbing a tree? I assure you, I’ve survived worse.”
“Yes, I know! You survived a carriage crash. You survived nearly freezing to death in Derbyshire. You survived a goddamned trek through St. James’s Parkalonein the middle of the night. For Christ’s sake, Margo, you have to be more careful!”
He felt her tense beneath him, and he thought she might slap his face. He wanted it—a quick hard spark to shock him back to his senses. Instead her lips twisted down, the constellation of freckles at her mouth a harsh curve.
“Are you only now discovering this? Yes, Henry—I’m careless. I’m reckless.” Her blue eyes were bright, bright—her lips were trembling. “What haven’t I wrecked in my godforsaken life? What haven’t I ruined?” Her palm had somehow come to his chest, flat and warm through the thin barrier of his shirt.
“Damn it, Margo—”
“This,” she said. “Us.”
And it was true, though not as she meant. He was ruined. He no longer knew how to breathe without the scent of her in his nose. He didn’t know where he ended and she began, and he wanted to press his turbulence into her body and bury himself there.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that what you want me to say? I’m sorry I climbed a tree. I’m sorry I made you come with me. I’m sorry—”
“No,” he said, and then he yanked her back against his chest and kissed her.
The heat flared between them as it had the first time, crackling and instantaneous. Margo thrust her fingers into Henry’s hair and held him, locking his mouth to hers.
It was the same and different too, this time—edged with anger and hurt and something she could not contemplate. His mouth was seeking, his fingers pressed hard into her back, and without thinking she sucked his lip between her teeth and bit him.
He groaned, a hot, torn-off sound. Desire spilled inside her, pooling in her lower belly, and she arched up into him. His hands found her buttocks, lifting her against him, and she felt the hard press of his arousal.
“Yes,” he gritted out. “I’m wrecked. I’m out of my head. I want to check every inch of you for a scratch or bruise, and at the same time I want to pull you down into the dirt and swive you senseless.”
Damn him. He had her panting again, pressing her breasts against his chest, desperate for friction. Her dress felt rough and cold, and she wanted his hands, his mouth, anything to ease the ache that had started between her legs then spiraled through her body. Her nipples were tight, and ithurt,all this wanting.
“Tell me to stop.” His hands pressed into her backside, kneading harder. His breath was in her ear. She felt the scrape of his teeth. “Tell me it’s over.”
In answer, she fell to her knees on the leaf-covered soil and pulled him down with her.
He swore and took them the rest of the way to the ground.
Margo felt everything. The chalky stone at her back, the leaves that brushed her cheek. Henry’s weight on top of her—pressure, friction,yesandmore—and then the small pops of her bodice hooks as Henry yanked them free.
He had her bodice pushed down to her waist, the neckline of her chemise tugged open. She scrambled for the edge of his shirt, his falls, needing his heated skin under her hands. Then her nipple was in his mouth, hard, sweet, shocking pleasure. She pushed her head back into the dirt.
He sucked and licked, and Margo lost track of everything but sensation—feeling it, chasing it, demanding more. Her hips rocked up against him, and she tried to curl one leg around his body, bringing him to where the ache was deepest. But he pressed back, pressed her down. His hand came to her knee, holding her leg open.
There was no relief from the ache then, only the empty space between them. Her muscles felt strung tight. Desire was a wheel, spinning her down into some place hot and desperate. She dug her fingers into the loam at her sides, feeling cold earth on her burning skin.
“Henry,please.” She didn’t recognize her voice. She sounded drugged, mindless, lost in animal need.
He lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of his eyes, his pupils wide, his gaze unfocused. He looked as he’d said—wrecked.
He looked how she felt, consumed by lust and happy to drown in it. “I like that,” he said thickly. “When you beg.”
“Please, please—touch me. I can’t stand it, I’m going to die if you don’t—”
Her skirt was shoved up now, one of his hands at the line where her garter held her stocking up. He massaged the place where fabric ended and skin began. She felt the press of those blunt fingers on her thigh and tried to twist her body into him, but he held back.
“Say my name.”
“Henry,” she whispered, “Henry, please.”
“Tell me what you want.” His thumb brushed her curls, a whisper of sensation against her quim. Her hips jerked.
“You. Touch me. Oh God, please. Touch me and never stop.”
