A faint smile curving his lips, he moved closer. And closer still. Until she could feel his breath on her mouth where she wanted his kiss. "May I kiss you now?" he asked.
Why was he asking? Why didn't he just go ahead and kiss her? He'd done the same thing at Vauxhall Gardens and in the Panorama, asking her permission, making her agree.
She wished he'd just kiss her instead of asking, because she knew she should say no, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted James, and she wanted to kiss him, and she wanted to kick herself for being too weak to say no.
"May I?" he pressed. He was so close, there hardly seemed to be space to breathe between them. "May I kiss you now? Please let me kiss you, Juliana. I want to kiss you in the worst way."
In the worst way, just like she wanted. "Yes," she breathed. God help her, she said, "Yes, please kiss me."
And he did. His mouth crossed that last little space and settled on hers, and he proceeded to kiss her senseless. Positively senseless. The cards fluttered from her hand to the floor. Her senses began swirling, whirling, as she parted her lips and invited him in. His tongue swept her mouth, and she ached, positively ached, in her throat and her heart and, most curiously, in a place between her legs.
Still kissing her, he managed to maneuver her sideways onto his lap. She sighed and leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his neck, kissing him, kissing him. "I want to kiss you here," he whispered, trailing little kisses down her throat on his way to her cleavage. "I want to kiss you here, in the worst way."
Loving it, loving him, she tilted her head back to give him better access. And then his mouth was on a breast like she'd wanted, first kissing her through her chemise and then under it. He opened his mouth and drew in the crest, and dear heavens, it felt marvelous. Like a wanton, she arched her back, offering her breasts, offering herself, hoping he'd keep kissing them and do even more.
What she meant by more, she wasn't sure, but that curious ache between her legs was growing stronger. Stronger and hotter, more insistent. Dear heavens, she loved him. She knew she couldn't, knew she shouldn't, but she loved him nonetheless. And when he began caressing her, stroking her waist, her hips, her thighs, God knew she loved that, too.
And then his hand was underneath her dress, and he was stroking her thighs some more. Kissing her breasts and stroking her thighs, making her head swim. Making her heart pound and her breath come in little gasps. He abandoned her breast to recapture her lips, and her senses were spinning out of control. He was kissing her, stroking her, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and that curious ache between her legs was growing insistent to the point of being unbearable.
And then his hand skimmed the curls that guarded that ache, lightly, lightly, and he broke the kiss.
"Can I touch you here, Juliana? Can I touch you here?"
Dear heavens, why was he asking? She was gasping so quickly she could barely breathe, let alone talk. The ache was becoming so exquisite it seemed to be robbing her of speech.
She managed to nod, and he captured her mouth again, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance while his fingers danced below, parting her thighs and finally, finally touching her where she ached. A gentle slide of his fingers, just once, because once was all it took. He found a spot so sweet it made the breath catch in her throat, and she tumbled over a precipice, swirling, whirling, falling into pleasure fiercer than she'd ever known.
He kissed her and kissed her while she calmed, and then he kissed her again, and her head began to clear.
Dear heavens, what had she done? What had she allowed him to do? He was supposed to marry Amanda. He had to marry Amanda, or Aunt Frances would be devastated. He'd touched her in a place he should touch only Amanda, and even that only after they were married. And she'd not only let him touch her—she'd all but asked. Or rather, he'd asked her, but she hadn't hesitated to allow it. She'd nodded and kissed him, all but begging him to touch her where no man had touched her before.
She was appalled at herself. Absolutely, positively appalled. She'd wanted him to kiss her in the worst way, and she'd wanted him to touch her in the worst way, and it really had been the worst way.
He shifted her on his lap. "Are you all right, Juliana?" He lifted her chin, meeting her gaze. "Your eyes are blue," he whispered, sounding pleased. "Deep, deep blue."
She didn't want him pleased with her. He needed to be pleased with Amanda. "Obviously it's getting too dark for you to see," she snapped. "My eyes are hazel."
He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and then he kissed her again. And she let him, which made her feel better and worse all at the same time.
"It is getting dark," he finally admitted, sounding much too regretful. "We need to go find the others before the garden's gates are locked."
She slid off his lap, and he raised her chemise and bodice with gentle fingers, and then he turned her around and buttoned her dress. And tucked in the dratted, too-straight hair that had slipped from its pins. And buttoned his two buttons and shrugged into his tailcoat and knotted his neckcloth in place, haphazardly as usual. And she reached to straighten it, unable to help herself, even though she knew she shouldn't. And she let him kiss her again, a little sweet kiss that doubtless meant nothing to him but meant much too much to her.
She had to
