But all of that was beside the point. "We cannot go to bed with your mother sleeping down the hall. Not before we're married. It's not the thing, James—it's highly improper."
"You've never worried about being improper before. As you pointed out to Aunt Aurelia just two days ago, we've been in private together more than once." His voice went even deeper, more seductive. "At Vauxhall, and the Panorama, and the Physic Garden…"
She blushed again, remembering all those times. Remembering the greenhouse in Chelsea especially. Remembering all those feelings he'd aroused in her. "But we weren't in a bed." She gulped more port.
"Do you really think a bed makes a difference, my love?" Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them. "I've kissed you before without a bed," he reminded her, edging her toward a table. He took her wineglass and set them both down. "If you'd prefer, I will kiss you right now without climbing into the bed. All right?"
And he did. He drew her against his hard, muscled form, and he kissed her, a kiss invitingly warm and deep. A kiss persuasive and divine. He tasted of lust and sweet wine and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.
Slowly, very slowly, he inched her toward the bed, and she moved with him, her arms going up and around him, her fingers plowing into his unruly hair. His hands wandered her back and worked their way down to her bottom, still moving her, pressing her closer, so close she felt the proof of his desire straining against her. It made answering emotions rush through her, made heat pool in that place between her legs that ached whenever he touched her.
And all the while, he kept inching them toward the bed.
Before she knew it, they were on the bed.
"It's only a bed," he murmured. "It really doesn't make a difference." And it didn't, not really. She knew that. "It's more comfortable here," he whispered, a whisper so raspy it made her melt.
It was more comfortable. There had to be a featherbed under the covers, because she sank right into it. He rolled closer, and closer still, until his body covered hers, pressing her farther into the plush, sensual mattress. It cradled her, cocooned her, and still he kept kissing her.
He felt warm on top of her, and heavy, but not too heavy; he had to be supporting himself somehow, because he was just heavy enough to feel deliciously exciting. And she wanted him to kiss her forever. She knew she shouldn't allow him to do anything else, but just the feel of his mouth on hers was enough to satisfy her every desire.
But then he abandoned her mouth to kiss her throat, finding an especially sensitive hollow. She moaned…oh, yes, he could make her moan. Thank heavens his mother was so far down the hall, because James was so excessively proficient at making her lose her head, there was no way on earth she could help herself. She moaned again, and her breath came faster, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he kissed the wide expanse of skin framed by her low neckline, fluttery little kisses that went everywhere, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever. And he kissed the tops of her breasts, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he worked a hand beneath her body, just long enough to unfasten a few buttons. And drew her bodice and chemise down, exposing her breasts.
He paused, his chocolate eyes going hazy with hunger. "Do you want me to kiss you here?" he asked in that raspy, heartrending whisper.
Her breasts tingled, and he hadn't even touched them yet. They tingled, and he was just looking. Their tips were puckering and making her squirm.
"Oh, yes," she breathed, and he kissed her there. One breast and then the other. And then back to the first, and his mouth opened, drawing her in, and the sensation was hot and so exciting that the aching place between her legs began to pulse.
And suddenly, remembering how he'd made her feel when he touched her there that one time, it wasn't enough to satisfy her every desire.
She wanted more.
"Oh, James," she breathed, "kiss me more."
He lifted his head, his warm breath wafting over her bare skin. "Should I kiss you here?" he asked, indicating her other breast.
"Oh, yes."
He did, and it felt even better, more amazing. Her blood was rushing, and her breath was coming in little panting bursts. Wanting to give him the same pleasure, she touched him everywhere she could reach. His springy, curly hair, the curve of his head underneath, the roughness on his cheeks. His hard, sculpted shoulders. The smooth, muscled expanse of his back beneath his clothing.
He felt wonderful, marvelous, but she couldn't reach any lower. Her arms simply weren't long enough. "More," she whispered. "Kiss me more." Thinking he would return to her mouth, thinking he would move up her so her hands could reach farther down, she breathed, "More. Kiss me more."
But he moved down instead of up. He kissed her through her thin yellow dress, down her middle and across her belly. And a hand went lower still, pulling off her slippers. And stealing beneath her skirts.
And skimming up her legs. And untying her garters and rolling her stockings down and off, a slippery, tingly slide of silk. And then his fingers danced up her calves, and over her knees, and around and behind them, teasing a ticklish place on the
