She did not move, only stood balanced on her tiptoes, her body canted forward, both hands flat against the wall.
Lust was a fire in his blood, his body growing taut all over. He drew closer, close enough to touch, and wrapped one hand around the fine bones of her ankle.
He could hear the unsteady rhythm of her breath.
“Don’t move,” he said. And then slowly he slid his fingers up her silk-clad leg. He coasted over the taut muscle of her calf, the back of her knee. His hand had disappeared under her skirts, but he did not need to see. He could feel each inch of flesh as he drew his hand over it, the warmth of her skin through her stockings, the rounded curve of her inner thigh.
He could breathe in her scent and hear the catch in her throat as his fingers met the lace edge of her garter, the last tiny separation between his skin and hers.
He curled his fingers underneath the lace and stocking and dragged it all down, baring the silk-soft skin beneath. He flipped his hand over and closed it around the curve of her thigh, gripping hard, listening to the whimper and gasp Matilda made, feeling her body tilt harder into the wall.
He knew, somewhere in the dim corners of his mind called Reason and Sanity and Self-Protection, that this was a terrible idea.
But he put his other hand to her waist anyway.
“Get down,” he told her, “before you fall.”
She leaned shakily into his body. He cupped the bare skin of her thigh, her hip, the sweet curve of her buttocks—ohGod—and he let her slide slowly down to the floor. Her body crushed against his, and he couldn’t think over the pounding of his blood, the lightning-strike of pleasure everywhere they touched.
Finally, her stockinged feet met the floor. He’d let her skirts fall down, but he was greedy. Possessed. He could not give up touching her skin. He moved one hand to the back of her neck. The other toyed with the buttons at her collar, tracing the small revealed triangle of skin at the base of her throat. He could see her pulse, light and fast, and her face too: her lips parted, a flash of pink tongue as she wet her lips.
“I know about the dinners,” she said.
For a moment, he could not fathom what she meant.
“I know you arranged them for me. I know you told Mrs. Perkins to alter the menus so that I would have something to eat.”
He touched the hollow of her throat with one finger and did not know how to respond. Of course he had. What else would he have done?
“I have something to offer too,” she said, and there was a fierceness to her voice, almost a demand. “I can make this place a home for you and Bea. If you will not go to London, at least let me help you here. I can bring in light—and music—”
“Stop,” he said again, and he pushed into her, nudging her back into the rows of books behind her, beneath the hideous painting she’d been trying to pull down. “You have to stop.”
Her back met the books. Her hands came down to the shelf just beneath her hips, and fastened there. Her knuckles went a little white, he saw, and for some reason, the sight aroused him further.
Yes,he thought, a little desperate, not quite controlled.Hold tight.
“Stop what?” Her chin tipped back, and Christian watched his own fingers slip another button at her throat free. More flushed skin emerged beneath his hand.
“Everything,” he said. “You. Here. Invading my house. My goddamned dreams.”
“What am I—”
“Changing things.” He put his mouth to her neck and kissed the two freckles beneath her ear. His hand still cradled the back of her neck, and he held her still as he kissed the line of her jaw. “Making me want. Bringing me back to life.”
Too much—he’d said too much. She inhaled, quick and sharp, as though she might speak.
He kissed her.
And God, she tasted better than he remembered. Sweet and dark and hot and wet. She tasted needy and hungry, and she whimpered into his mouth, a shiver running through her body as she tried to arch up into him. He put all his frustration and longing into the kiss. It was hard and brutal, and she took it all, sucking and biting back, her fingers still clinging to the shelf at her sides.
He was mad. Out of his head. All he could think about was Matilda, her sweetness and her generosity and the soft fragrant heat of her body—and oh God, he had to see her again.
He pulled back. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she breathed, and—fuck it—he needed both hands. He let go of her nape, unfastened the rest of the buttons of her bodice, and then yanked down her chemise. Her breasts spilled out above her stays, round and pale and luscious.
Matilda gasped, and the sound was both spur to his desire and warning.
“Remember,” he ground out, “to say stop.”
