But he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
“I meant every word. I can’t afford to make another spectacle of myself. I—”
He silenced her with more kisses. Her arms twined around his neck, tightened. Judging by the way she arched into him, Miss Stanton felt about as inclined to stop as he did. He kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his embrace.
His shoulders thumped against something hollow. A door. Vaguely, he realized that they were still in the corridor. Servants might chance upon them. They would beOllie’sservants and therefore well used to keeping their mouths sewn shut, but Miss Stanton was right. They could take no more chances.
So Evan slid his hand from her hair and twisted the doorknob behind him. He caught her soft body to him as they tumbled inside. A bedchamber. Not hers, by the still air and general emptiness, but the room contained a bed, which would serve their purposes just fine.
He swung her into his arms, drowning her protests in more kisses. Well, possibly. She seemed to have forgotten to protest. Or perhaps the click of the door closing behind them gave her the same sense of relief and security, and there were no more protests to be made.
He certainly had no complaints. She was perfect. Warm and soft and sweet and eager and matching him kiss for kiss. He carried her to the bed. There was no elegant way to lay her in the center while still kissing—so he didn’t try.
Besides, no one had ever begged him for elegance. Passion, yes. And that, he was eager to provide. He backed up to the bed, determined not to remove his mouth from hers a single second longer than necessary. He eased down onto the edge of the mattress with her body in his arms, her fingers gripping his hair. He leaned backward until she was sprawled crisscross atop him. Before she could move, he rolled above her, pinning her to the bed with his gaze and mouth and body.
Her arms tightened around his neck and her breathing changed. “I haven’t a clue how that just happened. If you practice that maneuver often, please don’t tell me.”
Something in her tone was heartfelt enough that he tilted his head back to regard her. But although her words may have been serious, her eyes were smiling, and she didn’t tolerate the interrupted kisses for long. She leaned her head up to meet his, her lips parted, her lashes lowering.
He curved his hand beneath her head and kissed her, grateful she didn’t expect a response. It was true; he didn’t feel like a green boy, fumbling his way through his first sexual encounter. But nor did he feel his usual careless self, taking pleasure for pleasure’s sake with this or that wench in a seaside tavern. First, he wasn’t drunk on whiskey and treason. Second, Miss Stanton was the complete opposite ofanyonehe had ever lain with. And lastly, he could scarce treat her or the moment carelessly because, well... he did care. Immensely.
The horrifying thought might’ve given him pause had Evan not immediately and forcefully put it from his mind.
The only thought drowning his brain was to keep kissing her. Touching her. He pulled the comb from her hair and ran his fingers through its softness. The blonde mass fell to her breasts. Her beautiful, tempting breasts. He ran the palm of his hand along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, her arm, irritated that every inch of her body was covered in layer upon layer of cloth, from her toes to her fingertips.
He could no longer withstand the need to have at least part of her jasmine-scented flesh exposed to his eyes and mouth and tongue. He slipped a finger between sleeve and glove and pulled. Neither budged.
She looped her arms around his neck, allowing their desperate kisses to continue as one bit of silk after the other fluttered to the floor beside them. He tugged one of her now-bare hands forward and brought it to his lips. He kissed each fingertip, the lines of her palm, the frantic pulse pounding at her wrist.
He decided he hated long sleeves. Perhaps clothing in general. He wished neither of them were encumbered by winter layers. Particularly those that would require ten minutes unhooking tiny buttons before the bodice would loosen. His heart would expire before he finished.
Assuming she let him try.
Then again, she was returning every kiss, every lick, every nibble. She certainly hadn’t been asleep when they’d tumbled into the room, closed the door, and made their way to the bed. She had been the first to start tossing unwanted articles of clothing overboard. In fact, so far she was the only one to have done so. Evan hoped to rectify that immediately. Now that they were alone and abed, he had no wish to remain properly dressed.
He kissed the hollow in her neck, the line of her jaw. His hand cradled the side of her face as their tongues clashed. Then he slid his palm down to her neck, her collarbone, her bodice. Blood pounded in his ears. He splayed his fingers over one perfect breast. Hidden beneath a thousand maddening layers of cloth.
She gasped beneath his mouth but arched into him as if she, too, resented the obstructions preventing his flesh from touching hers. He imagined he could feel her nipple hardening, rising to greet him through the soft linen of her stays. He stroked the phantom nub gently with the pads of his fingers. No, not imagining. She moaned, arching higher. His cock strained against his breeches.
He dragged his mouth from hers, burning a trail of kisses down the line of her neck, the muslin covering her décolletage, to the round breast cupped in his palm. He opened his mouth over that hard little nipple and laved with his tongue. Damp, the fabric molded to her skin, accentuating the nipple’s arousal.
Her fingers gripped his hair, pressing his face into her breast.
Without removing his mouth—he would die first—he reached lower, gathered a handful of skirt in his fist, and pulled. Inch by inch, the rising hem exposed the tops of her boots, the curve of her ankle, her slender legs. He couldn’t watch, but his bare palm informed him of every detail. The silken smoothness of her stockings, the heat of her skin, the slight shiver as both cool air and his warm fingers touched the exposed flesh of her thigh.
“I—” she gasped.
He returned his mouth to hers and swallowed whatever she’d been about to say with the passion in his kiss. He stroked her hips, the inside of her thighs, just above the apex between, everywhere but the one place he was dying to touch. He needed her to want it, too.
And she did. The scent of her desire drove him half mad. Her body writhed beneath him, her hips trying to coax his fingers to quit teasing, to give her release.
With his mouth still mating with hers, he finally slid his hand beneath her petticoats, cupping her. Ran the length of his fingers against her slick flesh. She moaned again, bit his lip. He dipped the tip of one finger inside, loving the hot wetness, the contraction of her muscles. He slid his newly moistened finger barely free, just enough to stroke her, to stoke her fire.
Her gasps came louder, faster. She forgot she’d been kissing him. Her head fell back against the mattress and her eyes fluttered closed. He rubbed, teased, dipped the tip of his finger back inside, stroked her in soft circles. Faster. Slower. Deeper inside. Back for more caresses. She was so hot, so wet, so ready, so—
She bucked beneath him, and he sank a finger inside, rubbing simultaneously with the pad of his thumb. She convulsed, gripped his shoulders, sucked in shallow, shuddering breaths.
He kissed her, caressed her until she collapsed boneless beneath him, then finally, finally, allowed his damp and trembling fingers to fumble at the buttons of his fall. His cock strained, pulled, demanded to sink itself to the hilt in all that sweet wetness. There. At last. His cock was free from its restraints, pulsing hot and hard in Evan’s palm.
